Bumps Along the Way
by buckyjaymes
Summary: Bella is a young single mom whose entire life revolves around her daughter, Tate. Edward is a waiter at his sister's and brother-in-law's diner and searching for his place in the world. When they meet, their lives start to intertwine in ways they never expected. — AH, AU. BxE. Rated T for language and mature themes. ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.
1. Prologue: August 22, 2010

_(Okay, so, I know this is a really long prologue and prologues aren't usually lengthy, but the rest of the story takes place four years afterwards so I didn't want to make it a chapter if the actual story doesn't happen til later. If that makes sense. :P)_

 _Anyway, hi. Long time no see. I haven't published anything in a while. I know I said I was working on Flightless Bird but my motivation for that went out the window for some reason. I fully intend on getting back to it eventually but at the moment the new version is still in the early stages; I haven't exactly done much with it in six months. Somehow I ended up with the idea for Bumps almost a month ago, and here I am. I really love this story so far and I'm proud of myself for actually writing it and enjoying what I've written, and I hope you like it too! As the summary suggests, it's a rocky love story, so bear with me. Enjoy for now!_

* * *

 **PROLOGUE: August 22, 2010**

 _Bella_

I still remember the day she was born like it was yesterday. And in a way, it was. At least for me.

On my due date, August twenty-second, 2010, my water broke at three in the morning after a long day of mounting contractions and complaining (I still tease my father about making it up to him since he had to stay home with me all day and probably hated every second of it). I woke up to an unpleasant gush of fluid between my legs and a particularly violent contraction hit me a second later. I yelled for Charlie and he barreled into my bedroom straight away.

"Call the hospital," I gasped, the small room spinning. "Let them know we're—we're coming. Ohhh…" I moaned. Ouch.

Too panicked to reply, he ran downstairs two at a time and made a brief ruckus in the kitchen (I think he tripped over his own damn shadow, the poor guy). He spoke hurriedly into the phone for thirty seconds—I timed it along with the next contraction—then I heard him rush outside to start the car. I forced myself to sit up, cautious and slow, racking my brain for memories of my birthing classes and how to breathe properly. Perched at the edge of my bed, I waited for my heart to stop pounding, holding my belly instinctively. Despite my fear and the anxiety brewing inside, a couple little nudges against my palms somehow made me feel better. I was gonna take care of my girl and she was gonna take care of me.

"Hey." Charlie walked back in, red-faced and panting. I took one look at his wide, nervous brown eyes and totally lost it; tears burned my vision and a sob ripped its way from my chest. I dropped my face into my hands, frightened to death.

Naturally, Charlie grew even more concerned and came to sit beside me, putting an arm around my tense shoulders in an unexpected (yet welcome) fatherly gesture. "What hurts?" he demanded. "What's the matter, Bells?" His voice shook.

"I'm so scared," I wept, leaning into him helplessly. Wet trails dripped down my cheeks and I tasted salt on my quivering lips. "I'm so fucking scared, Dad. I've had nine months to—to get ready for this but now it's finally happening and I just don't know what to—to do—God, what is _wrong_ with me?!" I punched my knee angrily. "Why did I have to go get knocked up by some drunk loser—"

"Shhh," Charlie soothed, tucking a loose lock of hair behind my ear. "That's not important right now, honey. Look at me." He tilted my chin up with his finger and tapped my nose like he used to when I was little, which only made me cry harder for another reason. We had a weird relationship back then, about as weird as a teenage girl and her single father could have. Not to mention getting pregnant only seemed to alienate me from him entirely even though he tried his best to be supportive and understanding. I'd lived with him in Forks since I was twelve after my mom and her fiancé died in the car accident that permanently altered my life. I only saw him during the summer up until that point, so you'd think five years of being together after that would eventually bring us closer. We did at first, I think, and we _were_ getting somewhere in our coexistent relationship—but then a damned pink plus sign popped up and I reverted back to feeling alone and lost.

So for Charlie to be near me and to treat me like I wasn't a fuck up like everyone else I knew, I was surprised. I shouldn't have been, though—I knew he loved me with everything he had and wasn't about to disown me. All he cared about, all he ever cared about, was the safety of his daughter and grandchild. Even if things were happening too soon and before I'd even graduated from high school, we were his first priority. That would never change. Not in a thousand years or a million.

"It—it's okay to be scared," he continued quietly, slightly uncomfortable with having to give a Paternal Pep Talk. "I am, too. But—but we shouldn't let that stop us from being excited for what's coming. Sure, I always thought you would be a bit older and in a relationship before you started having kids, but what's done is done and we'll just have to accept that. I love you anyway." He cleared his throat and blinked rapidly; apparently this was emotional for him as well. "I love you anyway," he said again, squeezing my shoulder. "And—and, yeah. You'll be fine. You're both healthy, you can do this."

I laughed through my tears, dabbing at my cheeks with my shirt sleeve. Just like that, Charlie went from sentimental and dad-like to giving one final awkward piece of encouragement. But I was grateful, more than I could ever say. That meant a lot.

Charlie remembered to pick up my hospital bag, which had been sitting below my rocking chair for three weeks, and he led me gently down the stairs, patiently yet anxiously. My contractions felt like really strong menstrual cramps; I tried my best through the pain to count how many seconds or minutes they lasted during the drive to the hospital. I held onto my father's hand, probably crushing his fingers, but he didn't seem to mind much. He kept looking over at me, uneasiness etched onto his face.

I felt a wave of nausea as we rolled into the parking lot. The building suddenly seemed bigger than I remembered. For a moment I imagined thunder and lightning cracking over the roof like we were about to enter a villain's dark creepy castle.

I had to waddle carefully alongside Charlie as we walked, gripping his elbow and hoping I wasn't about to pass out from pain. The nurse manning the front desk glanced up when we came in, offering a kind smile when she recognized me. It's a smaller hospital so I guess she must have seen me around after my weekly doctor's visits at some point. Charlie told her my name and that I was obviously here to have a baby. Without a hint of judgment in her maternal gaze, she nodded and looked me up on her ancient computer. I paid attention to every little sound around me, like the clicking of her nails on the keyboard as she typed. Phones rang, doors slammed, wheels squeaked, doctors conversed. A loud baby cried.

"Okey dokey, Miss Swan," the nurse said in a chipper voice, turning towards me and smiling again. She reminded me of my mother, innocent blue eyes and all. My throat tightened; the birth of my child wasn't supposed to happen without her—and yet, here I was, accompanied by Charlie and no one else. Grief replaced my embarrassment. I wanted my mother.

The nurse told us where to find my room. Charlie guided me down a couple of long hallways until we reached the doors to the maternity ward. I pointedly avoided looking at the nursery when we passed, afraid of possibly seeing a baby in a glass incubator with tubes and wires connected to its fragile body. (I know now that sick babies would actually be in the NICU but I wasn't going to take the chance that the one time I arrived to give birth, they had switched things around.) Nausea hit me once more at the thought of something happening to _my_ baby—Jesus, no. I told myself to think positive instead.

My room was tiny, but cozy. Charlie turned on the light and set my hospital bag down on a chair in the corner under the television mounted on the wall. Troubled, I eyed the heart monitor and other mysterious labor-related machines next to the bed for a minute or so, my mind racing. There was a small table with a white padded blanket draped across it—my baby would be there soon, wriggling and wailing as the nurses weighed her and tended to her vitals. _Holy crow. It's happening_.

My favorite nurse, Tabitha, walked in, breaking my trance. She was about my height, skinny and petite, with smooth skin the color of coffee and thick dark hair that fell in small ringlets to her shoulders. She waggled her fingers at me, grinned at Charlie, then stepped forward and offered me the pale pink gown she carried in her hands. She smiled apologetically.

"You know the drill," she joked as I took it, pretending to be disgusted at the thought of putting it on. She laughed. "It's okay, babe. This is one of our new gowns, and it's never been worn by anyone else. I picked it out for you." She winked and my mouth fell open in surprise. She didn't have to do that. I got emotional, touched by her thoughtfulness. It almost seemed too good to be true, like things were about to take a turn for the worst and I'd wind up with an awful doctor who laughs at and shames seventeen-year-old pregnant girls. (Although I was the _only_ seventeen-year-old pregnant girl at the time. I knew that for sure because Forks is a small town with just one high school so naturally I was a hot topic all year.)

Maybe I exaggerated earlier when I said people treated me differently when I got pregnant. I did get lots of funny looks, could hear my classmates gossiping under their breath, and generally wasn't as well-liked as I used to be. But nobody I knew was ever like, "You're a dumb slut, we can't be friends anymore, you make us look bad." They saw me as a new person rather than clumsy, studious old Bella, but over time my small group of friends just wanted to look after me and defended me against others who weren't so kind. My closest friend, Angela Weber, often took me to my appointments and helped me keep track of my weekly changes in a mini calendar and notebook. I thought of her now, thankful for her kindness above anything else. She was definitely the first person other than Charlie who I wanted my daughter to meet.

I changed into the silky hospital gown and gingerly climbed onto the bed, cuddling up beneath the thin sheet, freezing. I closed my eyes and breathed through another contraction while Tabitha strapped the baby monitors across my tummy. It picked up my girl's heartbeat immediately and I gasped softly when the hollow thumping met my ears. It was amazing.

"Is she okay?" I asked Tabitha, who was getting an IV ready. I spotted the needle in her hand and felt like crying again.

"Yup," Tabitha responded cheerfully. "Everything looks good. I'm gonna check your dilation in a minute, though, okay?" Great. As much as I liked Tabitha and knew it was her job, I didn't exactly want her poking around down there. My own heart skipped when I tried to remember the last time I shaved. A week? Two weeks? _Shit. Poor Tabitha._

Charlie stared out the window silently, shoulders stiff and jaw tense. A stream of apologies fell from my lips as Tabitha looked. She shut me up by telling me over and over, in her naturally easy-breezy tone, that it was fine. (I was still upset, though.) Thankfully Charlie wasn't paying attention at that moment or else we both would have been an awkward mess. My nurse put my legs and the sheet down and patted my foot. I noticed I didn't have socks on; no wonder my toes were so cold.

"Four centimeters," Tabitha announced brightly, and my eyebrows jumped to my hairline. Already? Was that normal? Or had I not been paying as much attention to my contractions as I thought I was? Oh well. I assumed it didn't really matter. I was four centimeters closer to meeting my baby girl, so I comforted myself with that realization. _Six more to go, Bella._

* * *

It was a long night. I urged Charlie to get some rest, and it broke my heart when he started snoring in that chair and I got a good look at his tired face. He had shadows under his eyes and I started feeling guilty, mad at myself for putting him in this position. No father wants a grandchild at forty, especially not when said grandchild doesn't have a dad and its mother is still in high school. As much as he told me he had accepted it and would always be there for both of us, he didn't have to say it out loud for me to know this wasn't what he wanted for me. My mom wouldn't want it for me, either.

That's what hurt the most. Not the staring in hallways and classrooms, not being the youngest pregnant girl in Forks, not the sacrifices Charlie was making for me. No, the fact that Renée would be disappointed in me hurt more than anything. She might have had me at nineteen, but she and Charlie were married. _I_ wasn't conceived by a drunk dude at a party who I don't remember meeting or seeing ever again. Renée raised me on her own with help from my grandmother, but at least I had a relationship with my dad. At least she knew who her child's father was and that I was created out of love. Renée was done with school when I was born. She'd already grown into some sort of woman. But me? I was seventeen. Barely an adult. More of an emotionally mature child. I'd been the grownup in my time with my mom but that did not mean I was supposed to be irresponsible enough to drink and have unprotected sex with a stranger. God, some first time that was.

Well, I don't actually remember it since my brain was fried by alcohol—I mean it went so hard that I wound up pregnant. Just my luck.

I suppressed a sob and stared at my belly. How could I regret something I already loved so much? It was hard not to be in love with my baby. It came automatically to me. My love for her was necessary like breathing. In the beginning I might have tried not to get attached, but everything changed the first time I heard her little heart beating and saw her inside me—now it was hard to believe that was only several months ago. Now she'd had enough of her comfy home in my tummy and wanted out. I was thankful I had Charlie and my friends to support me; thankful society didn't shun me as terribly as I imagined, thankful I didn't get kicked out of the house. Now the desk in my room had been pushed to the side to make way for the same crib I slept in seventeen years ago. I'm grateful Charlie kept that, as well as the zoo animal mobile my mom made herself.

Tabitha came in every thirty minutes to check on me and to see if I'd progressed. Contractions got stronger, longer, and closer together as the night wore on; I kept watching the sky, waiting for the sun to peek out from behind the clouds. If I were to be graced with a visible sunrise on the day of my daughter's birth, that would be something akin to a miracle. We had gotten nothing but rain and gray skies all summer. It bugged me to think the darkness wouldn't clear, even on today.

I was thankful when Tabitha gave me an epidural; my lower back and hips were killing me. I slept for a bit around seven when I gave up hoping the sun would come out. I had reached nine centimeters by eight (which was pretty impressive; I dilated almost to a ten in just five hours). I spent most of the night glancing absentmindedly at the television, biting my nails, and trying to get comfortable in the bed. I wished I had brought pillows from home. Eventually I wasn't allowed to eat anything except ice chips, and I could only drink juice or water, which was fine—I felt like I'd just throw food up anyway.

Charlie was surprisingly levelheaded when he woke up. He went down to the cafeteria to grab breakfast and we talked a little about names for the baby while he ate. I had some cute ideas but wasn't going to decide until I saw my daughter. I fleetingly considered calling her Renée after my mom, but that didn't feel right. I don't know why but I had a sense that it wouldn't fit, at least not for a first name. I also didn't want to be constantly reminded of the person and life I'd lost every time I said my child's name.

A lot of things started happening at once as soon as Tabitha confirmed I was at a ten. Two other nurses walked in, soon followed by my OBGYN, Rachel Larson, who greeted me with a smile and a warm "How are you?" as well as an apology for "being so late." I assured her we were doing good and told her she didn't have to be sorry for anything. She and my dad shook hands and Tabitha brought her and the other ladies up to speed about the last six hours since I checked in. I said a silent prayer to whatever god was looking out for me that day, since I half-expected a different (and male) doctor to be delivering my baby if she couldn't make it on time. I trusted Rachel with all my heart. She had my records and was as gentle and kind with me as she would be towards anyone else, which I appreciated. I'd have (hypothetically) died if I ended up with a doctor who rolled their eyes every time I saw them and later told their colleagues about Chief Swan's slut of a daughter.

"Okay." Rachel turned to me. "Tabitha says everything looks great. Baby's in position, she's engaged and ready. What about you, sweetie? Are you ready?" _No. Of course I'm not ready. I'm almost eighteen years old and I'm having a baby. I'm the furthest thing from ready that you can imagine._ I didn't say any of that, though. I held back my tears and nodded.

"I know you told me you've gone to a few birthing classes, but if you want, we can go over some stuff right now just to refresh your memory," Rachel suggested, already slipping on a pair of latex gloves. I couldn't answer her because I was too paralyzed by fear, the anxiety from earlier rushing back and restricting me from doing or saying anything. My heart picked up speed and my baby moved sharply, like she sensed something was wrong with me. Tabitha rushed to me to see if I was having a seizure or a stroke or whatever, but I jerked myself out of it in time before any of them could panic.

"I'm fine," I whispered hoarsely. Tabitha rubbed my shoulder comfortingly. Charlie took a step back, watching me warily. "Um, yeah, we can talk," I said to Rachel, embarrassed now. I honestly couldn't remember those classes at the moment, so it was nice to have Rachel remind me of the important things I'd learned. I paid attention as much as I could, wanting to seem like I was retaining all the information she was repeating. But I kept worrying on the inside, afraid I would screw it up. The one thing that scared me more than my daughter being harmed during birth was _being_ the one who hurt her—if my sweet baby girl got hurt because of something I did or didn't do, I'd have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.

When Rachel was finished telling me everything I needed to know about giving birth, there was no denying it any longer: this baby was coming and she was coming now. I couldn't stall, couldn't wait til later, couldn't keep it from happening—I was finally having my child today. Her father might not have been present, but mine sure was. I had been blessed with a team of nurses and a doctor who weren't going to stand there and judge me. I was certainly too young, but I had to be a big girl, I had to be a _mother_ , and pull through for my daughter. She needed me, depended on me to get her here safely.

 _You can do it_ , I told myself as they positioned my legs in the supports connected to the bed. Charlie came to sit beside me on a short stool, rolling close to me, holding out his hand. I looked at him tearfully, gripping it tightly in my trembling fingers. He smiled slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. He wasn't a man of many words, his quietness a trait I inherited from him, but in this moment it seemed like he had a hundred things to say but not enough time to speak his mind. _I am so sorry, Dad._ All I wanted to do was apologize.

"Okay, Bella," said Rachel, bringing me back to the task at hand. "When the next contraction comes, you're gonna push as hard as you can." _At least I have an epidural. At least this is happening at the hospital. At least my baby has her doctor._ I didn't really care what happened to me.

Giving birth the usual way wasn't as liberating for me as it might be for most women. I just wanted it done—I just wanted my child in my arms. I wanted it to be three big pushes and then a screaming baby is placed on my chest. But nothing is that easy or quick, at least not for me. No, poor little Bella Swan doesn't catch a break. She doesn't get to stop working or fighting for her child just because it's uncomfortable and she can't take it anymore. I felt like a bratty six-year-old who is throwing a fit in the middle of the grocery store because their parent won't get them a toy. I felt like a bitchy, mean girl on her sweet sixteen getting mad at her parents for not buying her the shiny car she wanted. I felt immature and stupid. I was embarrassed beyond belief. Seventeen years old and bringing a new life into the world. What had happened to me?

It spoke volumes that I felt like a kid in that moment. A sad, lonely kid who had lost her mother—yet was becoming one. Because I was still just a kid. Seventeen bordering on eighteen is older, yes, and I may have seen myself as the adult for most of my life, but that wasn't an excuse for getting pregnant and being a mom so young. It really changed everything.

But another thing that said a lot about me as a person was the fact that I never considered giving my daughter away. My baby would stay with me and Charlie and I'd raise her. There was no doubt in my mind that she was going to be my daughter forever.

"You're doing so good, Bella," Tabitha and Rachel kept telling me, but it was like the pushing would never end. They let me catch my breath when I needed to and offered encouraging words whenever I started crying. The nurse named Leslie kept track of the baby's heartbeat and the other—an older, stone-faced woman—Marge, had a warm towel ready to give me when Rachel handed me my daughter. Justifiably traumatized, Charlie said nothing—but he was being strong for me.

I'll keep the rest of the gory details to myself. I wouldn't know how to describe them anyway. A couple more pushes and a bit of excited cheering was all it took to get her out; everyone in the room lit up when she gave her first cry. It was _loud_ —more of a screech than anything. Immediately Rachel laid her on the towel across my chest, her pink face scrunched. I stared at her, speechless, as Marge gently rubbed her down, unable to believe my eyes. I was so wrapped up in looking at my crying baby that I grew blissfully unaware of my surroundings. It was just me and her, finally. Us against the world.

I didn't want to let her go—no, I _couldn't_. But they clamped and cut the cord and had to whisk her away to the measuring table. I never took my adoring, watery eyes off of her. Tabitha informed me she weighed six pounds, eleven ounces and was seventeen inches long. They let me pull the top of the hospital gown down to let her rest on my flushed skin; it was, without a doubt, the most amazing thing to hold her for the first time, her cheek on my breast. Her cries softened to little whimpers and eventually faded to silence as she fell asleep. I gave Charlie the honor of slipping a cap onto her itty bitty head. He had wet trails on his face, as well as the happiest smile I had ever seen. My heart overflowed with love for him.

"Proud of you, Bells," he whispered quietly, kissing my forehead, making me cry again. I didn't deserve a father like him.

"Thank you for being here," I murmured sincerely. My chin quivered. "Really, thank you. I love you so much." It had been a while since I meant those words with every piece of my heart.

He couldn't speak. He simply nodded, gave me a look that said _I know. I know you do. I love you too._ My daughter and I would be okay as long as we had him. He was going to be the best granddaddy in the world to my little girl, just like he was the best father to me.

"You were great, Bella," Rachel said, seeming proud of me, too. I smiled at her and mouthed my thanks. She patted my leg with a wink. Maybe certain doctors' and nurses' love for people and desire to help them overrides their first thoughts about them and their situations. Or maybe I simply got lucky enough to have this particular bunch of women on my side.

"Have you thought of any names?" Tabitha asked curiously, taking the monitors off my less-round stomach. I looked at my daughter's tiny face, still squished and rosy. I sighed, pursing my lips, remembering the conversation I had with my father earlier about that exact subject. He liked the name Kathryn—Katie for short. He also liked Willow and Mackenzie. Those were cute. I came up with Piper (mostly so I could just call her Pip because it's adorable as hell), Beatrice (kind of old-fashioned but Bea was endearing), and Tate. Tate held no significance to me; I liked it since it was short and sweet. I stared at my baby girl for a while, placing those names to her existence. It almost seemed like any name wasn't lovely enough to give her, like she was too precious and beautiful to label forever by a phonetically pleasing jumble of letters.

"I changed my mind," Charlie declared suddenly. "I think I like Tate the most now. It's different." I laughed. _Great minds think alike._

"Tate," I repeated warmly, and my mouth turned up at the corners. "Tate" was the smile on my lips and my daughter was the ray of sunshine I'd been waiting for. I glanced toward the window, and wasn't surprised to see the sun had finally come out.

* * *

 _That wasn't too bad, was it?_

 _Thank you so much for taking the time to read! Leave a happy friendly review telling me what you think and if I should continue posting. If this gets a good enough reception, expect the first chapter on January 2nd! As always, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be respectful._

 _That's all for now! Thank you again, and happy holidays!_

 _(Also, I gave a good friend of mine a subtle shout-out somewhere in here. You know who you are.)_


	2. Chapter 1: Birthday Baby

_Hello again! Thank you to **everyone** who followed and favorited the prologue, your support so far means so much to me! Shout-out to my buddy Stella who gave me the first review, to SunflowerFran for her little encouraging comment, and to kellythepitiablefangirl from Tumblr for messaging me with her sweet opinion! I hope your expectations for chapter one will be fulfilled, and that you'll let me know what you think once again :)_

 _Without further ado, Bumps begins (officially this time)! Brace yourselves for length :P_

 _Disclaimer - I don't own Twilight but this story idea as well as Tate belong to me._

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE: Birthday Baby**

 _Bella_

My baby girl looks like me. She has my eyes—Charlie's eyes—and the color of my hair and the same snowy skin as me with red roses melted into her round cheeks. She gets her silky curls from me, too, and her sweet spirit from my mother.

Renée would have loved Tate. I see so much of her in my daughter. (The good things only, like their passion for crafts and owning happy colorful things.) I know they'd be attached at the hip during visits and Renée would come bearing gifts to spoil Tate rotten (to her delight). In a way, that sort of already happens since Charlie adores her more than life itself and always has a present to give her.

You should have seen her the day we moved away from Forks. She would not let Charlie go. She sobbed her little heart out, wailed at the top of her lungs as piercingly as she did on the memorable day of her birth. She begged me to let her stay with him while I went to Seattle alone, refusing to listen to me when I tried explaining we'd be back for Thanksgiving and Christmas. "It won't be forever, baby," I kept saying even though my own heart was breaking. I didn't really want to leave Forks either, but Seattle had more fun things for her to do and new places to go and interesting things to see. The job I applied for in the city pays better than working at Newton's Olympic Outfitters (as lovely as that was), and when Charlie started seeing Sue Clearwater last fall, I didn't feel so bad about leaving Forks knowing he'd still have someone around to cook for him and do his laundry.

It was painful nonetheless. Here was the man who had so willingly accepted my daughter into his life, had dutifully stood by me during her birth, had pretty much named her, had helped me raise her for the first three and a half years of her life—and yet there I was, taking them away from each other. How incredibly selfish of me. In that moment, I bet Charlie was thinking about Renée on the day she left with me in 1993. I don't know how he couldn't—it was too similar of a situation.

The only difference between me and my mom is that I plan on going back. I want and _need_ him in Tate's life. It was just a change of scenery, the start of something new. I've reached that point where I might want a relationship too, but I desire a home of my own and enough money to safely raise my child first. I'm not looking for love. Just a purpose.

If I were to meet my future spouse tomorrow, I suppose that'd be interesting, but it's not at the very top of my list. I have a little girl to take care of, a job to excel at, a mortgage to pay, groceries to buy. Falling in love seems kinda distracting.

* * *

Someone is staring at me. Even through the thick haze of sleep, I can sense someone is definitely staring at me. Again.

I open my eyes, but don't see much besides the fuzzy darkness of my pillow on my face. My room is cold since my fan is constantly on medium (for whatever reason, I can't sleep unless I'm freezing with tons of blankets on top of me), and it's dead silent save for the light flow of my breathing. The quiet little person next to my bed keeps watching me, frozen.

Then a hand reaches out and four icy fingertips brush the exposed skin of my bare arm, and I yank it away instinctively. A sweet tinkling laugh fills the room as my daughter giggles at my dramatic reaction, and begins hopping up and down. I cringe when her feet make thudding reverberations across the carpeted floor, expecting one of the neighbors downstairs to ram us with the end of a broom or yell to knock it off. I flip the pillow from my head and squint at my electronic clock for the time. Eight thirty-two in the morning. Jesus Christ. I glance at Tate, still jumping for joy. It's too early for this shit.

"Hey," I croak, trying to be stern, rubbing my weary eyes and sitting up. "Hey, stop it. Tate, calm down, it's not nice to—"

"It's my _birthdaaay_!" she screams gleefully, launching herself onto the mattress. Giggling in an almost maniacal fashion, she crawls right up to my face and flops against my chest, knocking the wind out of me. Oh shit. It's August twenty-second already? Today's the day my little munchkin turns four; my mom would have been forty-one yesterday. Where has the time gone?

I wrap my arms around my baby girl and fall back to the fluffy pillows, holding her tightly. She wriggles in my grasp, still laughing up a storm. I smile into her soft tangles of hair, the curls tickling my nose and cheeks. She smells like lavender and vanilla—her favorite shampoo—and sounds like sunshine. She's warm like the sun, too. Sometimes I refer to her as a mini heater and let her sleep in my bed with me purely because she keeps me from freezing to death under my fan. It's more of an excuse to just be near her even in sleep—I don't turn my fan down because then I won't feel as guilty asking Tate to keep me company at night. Mommy bloggers wouldn't take too kindly to my silly reason instead of being one of them and teaching my kid to stay in bed. "A line has to be drawn somewhere," they'd all say. "What's that teaching her?"

 _Well,_ I'd reply, _it would teach her that someone in the world needs her, even for the smallest thing. That's kinda important._

* * *

" _Boom._ " I swing Tate off my shoulder and plunk her down into one of the chairs at the kitchen counter. I ruffle her coffee-colored tresses to annoy her (she hates when her hair is _too_ messy) and smirk when she makes a face and attempts to flatten the frizz. I open the fridge and pull out the carton of orange juice, shaking it up as I grab two clean cups from the dishwasher. I pour Tate half a glass but myself a full, then finally take a seat next to her, and we clink our drinks.

"So," I begin nonchalantly, adopting my work voice. Tate glances over at me, swishing her juice around in her mouth like she's some sly gangster tasting a shot of vodka. I have no idea where she learned that move from. (Not from me, that's for damn sure. I don't drink. Not constantly, anyway. I might have a sip of wine late at night after rather stressful days at work but other than that, no alcohol for me. The Mommy bloggers wouldn't approve of me drinking, either.) I frown at my daughter and tap her chin lightly, our silent signal for "don't chew with your mouth open" and "finish eating that, please."

" _So_ ," I say again when she swallows. "What do you wanna do for your birthday this fine morning, Your Royal Highness?"

My boss was generous enough to give me the morning off until his big important meeting about finances with other old white balding men at noon. He is the type of guy who does nice things for people but expects a lot more from them in return. It doesn't take rocket science to figure out what he wants from me, his pretty brunette assistant slash receptionist who works for him six days a week and receives surprisingly decent pay. He knows I have a child, though. As gross as he may be when he looks at me when I'm not paying attention (but still am aware of it because, you know, women _have_ to be aware of that kind of stuff), I honestly don't think he'd try and hurt me. He wouldn't traumatize a tiny single mother.

There I go, giving people the benefit of the doubt again. I really have to stop doing that—I'm most likely wrong anyway. Today could be the day I go to work only to be assaulted by that smarmy man in a goddamn closet or some sick shit—

Tate's telling me about what she wants to do for her birthday. I forgot I asked. I bring myself back to the present to listen to her, curious. I have something planned for tonight after cupcakes and ice cream, but obviously it's her day (or morning, since she'll be in daycare all afternoon, where I imagine her friends and the staff will keep her happily entertained) and I have to try to make it as wonderful and fantastic as possible. Naturally, she says she wants to go to the zoo—is there even a zoo here in Seattle? I don't remember—then the park (I suppose that could work), and then to the vintage ice cream shop two blocks away from her daycare center. I've been promising her all summer we'd go there eventually, so I'll see if I can somehow make time now. They don't open until eleven and I was hoping we could grab breakfast at my coworkers' favorite diner first…Ugh, decisions.

 _Being an adult is hard_ , I think to myself as Tate keeps chattering, sipping her juice. _Enjoy being a kid while it lasts, honey._

When she stops talking to finish her drink, I jump at the opportunity to say, "How about this. Why don't we go get some pancakes at this place I heard about, and if we have time, we can have ice cream _and_ go to the park, too. How's that?" I bite my lip, gauging Tate's reaction as she considers my offer. She thinks for a minute, swinging her feet, side-eying me (again with the gangster vibes).

"Mmmm…Okay!" the silly girl shouts at last, throwing her arms up and smiling from ear to ear. She's too cute for words.

Because it's her birthday, I let Tate pick out what she wants to wear for the day. She sifts through her tiny closet, singing an off-key, made-up song about unicorns and ice cream cones. Everything in her room is sweet and petite, like her. She has my old rocking chair in the corner next to her bed where she keeps all her stuffed animals, which overflow in groups to the braided rainbow carpet. She also has a vintage white dresser with various knickknacks and picture frames on top, colorful socks, ribbons, and Disney princess underwear often scattered in the drawers since neither of us are very good at keeping our possessions tidy (mental parenting to-do list: teach my kid to be organized). Smiling characters from My Little Pony are printed across her bedspread and pillowcases. Purple glow-in-the-dark stars decorate her low ceiling. Her door on the inside is covered in stickers that range from cute cartoon cats to Power Rangers kicking some ass. Overall, it's a nice cozy room and I'd give anything to be in here with her all the time to just play and bond. It's its own little world.

Tate chooses a pair of neon green leggings, a jean skirt, and a pale pink long-sleeved shirt. Not too bad for a four-year-old. "I can do it, Mommy," she says in a confident voice when I go to help her get dressed. Tears smart my eyes when I watch my tiny girl pull off her pajamas and successfully replace them with her outfit. She was wearing onesies and little diapers and looked like a bean in her first winter coat what seems like yesterday and now she's already dressing herself? It genuinely frightens me how fast time is going by. She'll be headed off to college in the blink of an eye. How terrifying.

But I have her today and I'll have her always. I remind myself of that fact when she retrieves her hairbrush and hands it to me, sitting down on the floor in front of me. My girl still needs me for a lot of things. She is my purpose. She is what I live for.

* * *

Whether it's a continuous birthday coincidence or a sign of her inner optimism, the sky is a clear light blue and the sun is shining bright. Every year on her birthday, from the very day itself, the sun emerges from behind the grey Pacific clouds to celebrate my daughter. This year Tate finally notices, pointing up to it in awe and asking, "Who did the sky like that?"

"Who made the sky look like that?" I repeat, instinctively pulling her away from the curb as she leans out to the street to get a better look. "I dunno, squirt. I think the sky just does it on its own. And it knows today is your birthday so it chose to be extra pretty. Isn't that special?" It really is. Sunny skies five years in a row and many more to go. I look at Tate, her small, flawless face lit up with an angelic smile as if the sky remembering her birthday is the best thing she's ever heard.

We turn the corner and I spot Half Century Diner at the very end, painted a happy blue and yellow, a sharp contrast from the paler, less inviting businesses around it. Tate gasps in excitement when she sees it too. Her smile only gets broader.

I let her open the door for us, holding back a laugh at her little grunt and look of determination. It's warm and cozy inside and I breathe in various smells—sizzling bacon, freshly stacked pancakes, maple syrup, hot coffee. The place is also on the tiny side, with about eight booths, ten tables, and fourteen stools at the counter, but its smallness only makes it that much more endearing. Most of the other costumers here are cute older couples, a few with young grandkids. The diner is filled with quiet conversation and the clinking of plates and glasses, and in the kitchen I can see the cooks hard at work.

Since there aren't any tables left, we take our seats at the counter. Tate slips off her mini backpack and slams it onto the hard plastic, reminding me of huffy men coming into meetings at the office on a daily basis. She rummages around for her box of crayons and _Frozen_ coloring book, pulling them out and setting them between us, intending to share with me.

One of the waiters comes back around the counter and pins an order to the frayed string hanging above the open space to the kitchen. A cook asks him a question and he shakes his head, smiling slightly, then grabs a new plate of food and rushes away. My eyes follow him, intrigued by his ridiculously untidy crop of hair. It's an unusual reddish-brown shade—I can't really name it, but for some reason it strikes me as familiar. I don't know how, though. I've never seen hair like that.

I'm helping Tate color in Sven the reindeer's harness when the guy returns, trying to flatten his hair before he approaches us. "Hi," he says in a friendly voice, grabbing both mine and my daughter's attention at the same time. Tate waves shyly and to my surprise, he waves back before looking at me directly. He grins crookedly. "What can I get for you lovely ladies today?"

"Uh—we haven't decided yet. Unless—" I glance at Tate, who has gone back to coloring. "Umm, we'll look at the menu."

"Sure thing. Take your time." He smiles at me again and steps away. I realize I'm holding my breath and let it go in a rush—dear God. I'm pretty sure I know what we want but in that moment it's like his eyes took away my ability to form words…which is really embarrassing because I never get tongue-tied around men. Well, not the men I'm used to seeing. Young and attractive men apparently "tickle my fancy," as my coworker Jessica (and, ironically, my ex-Spanish class partner) often says. She's right, though. They kinda do, if my current situation isn't an indication. God, I feel like one of those stupid girls in a teenage high school movie. I can't be thinking about men when I have a daughter to raise first; obviously she's going to be my top priority before anything.

And so I shake my head as if to clear it of any _impure_ and _unladylike_ thoughts (the wise words of my gran).

"What do you want, babe?" I ask Tate, picking up a menu and squinting at it. "Oh, look, they've got chocolate pancakes like the ones at IHOP. Wanna try those? Or do you want your usual waffles and whipped cream? Look." I tap the pictures of both plates. Tate glances at them briefly, gasps softly, then nods quickly and points to the pancake, her shiny ringlets bobbing. I smile at her enthusiasm. "Good. I can ask if they'll put extra whipped cream on it with a cherry because it's your birthday," I suggest, and her eyes light up.

The redheaded waiter finishes another round before he asks us if we're ready. I pointedly avoid looking at his eyes when I speak (despite how impolite that may be) and he writes down our order. Tate is so eager to have her pancake that she has a burst of confidence around this stranger and practically demands her whipped cream and cherry. She adds _please_ at the end of her sentence after noticing my raised eyebrows, but the waiter only laughs and says, "Of course we can do that." They share a smile. She thanks him delightedly and he nods, then walks away. His stride is familiar now, too. God.

"Mommy, look," Tate squeaks a few minutes later as I'm checking my hoards of boring emails on my phone. I glance up and follow her finger, pointing to the kitchen. I see one of the cooks getting to work on our breakfast, and Tate is enthralled. It's cute how even the littlest things captivate her mind, and I hope that precious curiosity stays with her always. I watch Tate lovingly while she gazes at our food with the same amount of adoration on her face, chocolate eyes wide as the moon.

She starts bouncing in her seat and does a drumroll on the counter when our waiter carries over our plates. I'm afraid she might hyperventilate and pass out. "One chocolate pancake with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top for _you_ ," the waiter says in an extravagant tone, his voice like honey, clearly trying to make it seem like the best pancake she'll ever have. "Aaand one for you." In a less enthusiastic manner, he slides my plate in front of me, but I know—or hope—he's only joking. Tate has already begun devouring her pancake, so I assume she'll want milk to wash it down with, and the waiter gets us two full glasses and tells us to enjoy. Tate yells "Thank you!" around a mouthful of pancake—her cheeks make her look like a chipmunk.

"Guess what," she says to him a few minutes later when she swallows and he's bending down to pick up cleaning supplies. "It's my _birthday_!"

He pops back up, feigning surprise. "Really?" he breathes, and she beams happily. He puts his hands on his hips. "Well—I guess that means I'll have to give you a special birthday sticker. One second." He disappears beneath the counter and rummages around for something. Tate forgets her pancake and leans over to see what he's doing. I watch quietly, eating mine. "Ah, yes—here we go." He reappears again with a handful of cute stickers and holds them out for her. "Pick one."

Tate touches each individual sticker, her tongue poking out and a wrinkle forming between her eyes as she tries to decide, eventually choosing the white unicorn (whose name I currently forget) from My Little Pony. She puts it on her shirt gladly and elatedly thanks him for the third time today, her brown eyes and little face overflowing with gratitude and happiness.

"You're very welcome," he says, putting the other stickers back. "Happy birthday." His smile is genuine, like he means it. I don't doubt that—even the grumpiest of people can lighten up after meeting my daughter. (Not to be that mom, but.)

Tate keeps looking down at her sticker while we eat, touching the purple velvet hair and grinning broadly from ear to ear.

Somehow I finish my breakfast before Tate (which was a given when she got that sticker), and have to use the restroom. I forgot to pee before we left earlier and after a whole glass of milk I think I might wet myself. (Did that once when I was, like, seven, in front of a crowd at my very first—and also last—dance recital. My poor mother was mortified for me.) My bladder is persistent and as much as I don't want to leave my four-year-old daughter alone even for a minute, I can't hold it in.

" _Stay here_ ," I instruct Tate very seriously. "Look at me—don't move. I'll be right back, but I need you to stay here." There aren't many threats in this tiny diner, considering most of the current costumers are seniors minding their own business. I feel confident that in the thirty to forty-five seconds I'm gone, all Tate will do is obediently eat her pancake. She smiles at me with a little "mmhmm," deliberately taking a huge bite to prove she'll be good for me until I return. She's not going anywhere; compliant as ever, she'll do as I say, so I scurry away towards the ladies' room, thankful that it's empty.

It's a relief to finally go. I drop my face into my hands and sigh heavily. My shoulders sag, my body droops. In the soft, buzzing quiet of the bathroom, I'm suddenly hit by a strong wave of fatigue. I can practically hear my heart beating—feel the blood pumping through my veins. I never sleep well these days and I'm so fucking tired. Pardon my French, but I am _exhausted_. Everything is hurting.

But there's a little girl out there who needs me so I suck it up. You never get a break from parenting, no matter how much you think you deserve it. There's always gonna be someone who needs you. There'll always be a hungry mouth to feed, a sweet face to wash, a warm body to be cuddled, a smart mind to teach, a good person to raise. Being a mom is a lifelong commitment and I accepted that reality four years ago when my daughter entered the world. As I stand here in front of the mirror, washing my hands and staring at my young, sleepy reflection, it occurs to me that motherhood is a gift—the best one I've ever gotten in almost twenty-two years. It came to me prematurely without a warning, and yet I obviously don't regret it. I don't regret my baby Tate. I don't regret the last four years—nearly five if you count my pregnancy. I haven't missed out on anything my friends from high school have gone on to do because I already have the career of a lifetime. Tate is my whole world.

So when I walk out and expect to see her still sitting at the counter, swinging her legs and sipping her milk, but instead a half-empty glass, almost gone pancake, and coloring book are the only things there to mark her territory, my heart stops and my entire body goes cold. I stare at her empty seat for a fraction of a second, my mind temporarily going blank in a panic.

Up until this very moment, from the time Tate started to understand commands and did as she was told, we have never, ever been in a situation like this. When we go to the grocery store, she's sitting in the cart up front, always visible. When we go out for a walk, she holds my hand, extra tight when we cross the street, always visible. When we go anywhere or do anything she is with me, _always visible_. I know she's only four but come on, she's more well-behaved than any other four-year-old—so her sudden and uncharacteristic disappearance can only mean one thing. It's literally every parents' nightmare. _Shit_.

That's when I notice our tall, red-haired, muscular, seemingly innocent waiter at the door with Tate, holding her wrist in his large hand. He's grabbed her, and her head snaps back to look up at him, startled, eyes dilating again, this time in fear.

"Hey!" I shout, making my voice as loud and angry as possible so everyone can hear. Conversations pause, heads turn sharply. "What are you doing?!" Any trace of exhaustion on my face or in my body is replaced by boiling hot, seething rage as my heart starts to pound. I move at a pace faster than I thought possible, reaching them before he can do anything else. I swoop down and snatch Tate into my arms, clutching her to me and shooting daggers at the stunned waiter. Adrenaline runs fast and scalding in my veins.

"What's going on here?" I demand, and I don't sound as assertive as I'd hoped. I'm squeaky all of a sudden, frightened.

The waiter raises his hands, palms-up, taking a step back. His sharp jaw is tight, his eyes wide. "Uh—she tried to leave."

"Yeah, with you?" I snap bitterly, my voice unsteady. He flinches, stung by the accusation. "What, did you offer her a cookie or something? Just like you gave her that damn sticker?" Tate tenses in my arms. She tries to move but I only hold her closer.

"Wha—no! My God, no." The waiter shakes his head quickly. "I was keeping her from getting out," he explains in a quieter tone.

I roll my eyes, refusing to believe my daughter would actually leave voluntarily. I try to protest, but my throat is too swollen. Tate manages to squeeze out of my grasp and leans away from my chest, giving me a sour look, like she can't wrap her little head around the fact that any of this is happening. We stare at each other for a few seconds before I ask, "Is that true, baby? Were you gonna leave on your own?" No parent wants to admit when their kid finally disobeys. Tate would never. Never.

My heart breaks when she looks down, feathery lashes casting shadows on her pink cheeks, tears welling up in her eyes as she realizes her mistake. Well, shit. That's on me. "Yes," Tate admits sadly, almost silently. "I saw a puppy, Mommy."

"You saw a puppy," I breathe, closing my eyes and letting my head fall back in exasperation. I heave a sigh. "Honey, we don't know what kind of puppy it was. It could've had…rabies." She gives me another look, confused. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her might-have-been kidnapper suppress a smile. Jerk. "Okay, listen, we'll…we'll talk about this later. You go finish your breakfast." I reluctantly set her on the floor and pat her bum to encourage her to walk away. She hangs her head and leaves gloomily.

This is a first for her, too. She's never "gotten in trouble" for anything in her life. I hope she doesn't start to hate me now.

I watch her with tortured eyes, waiting until she's safely in her seat before slowly looking back at the waiter. The awkward pause and natural urge to smile to diffuse the tension make the situation so much worse. I run my hand through my hair, staring at my feet, my face burning ten different shades of red. Eventually I have to say something. So I swallow the humiliation and attempt to look him in the eye, even though it inflicts a burning pain in my chest as I struggle not to burst into tears.

"I'm sorry," we say at the same time. He's the one who cracks a smile, but it's short-lived. I frown and say, "What do you have to be sorry for? You weren't actually…going to kidnap her." My embarrassed, tearful mumbling is barely audible. "I shouldn't have left her alone. You were just trying to help." I feel like I'm talking to myself now. Christ, I am such an idiot. What was I _thinking_?

He shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to scare her. But—but I saw the dog, and it was huge. Not really a sweet little puppy." He grins suddenly, endeared by Tate's massive love for any living creature. I can just see her brightening up and running to the door, wanting to pet it. Weird how that actually happened but I wasn't there to see it. "It could've eaten her," the waiter adds.

I laugh once, overwhelmed. Here's this guy, who I just accused of being a kidnapper, who has every right to be angry at me and kick me out of the diner, trying to console _me_. I probably just disgraced him in front of all his costumers. I don't have to drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness but I feel like he deserves something even more for going after Tate.

"Thank you," I say, looking at his chin instead of his eyes. "For, uh, y'know, not letting her go after the vicious…puppy. Um—wh-what can I do to make this…better? I owe you for doing that."

He raises his thick eyebrows, clearly taken aback by my words. "You don't owe me anything," he tells me, sounding puzzled that I'd suggest such a thing.

"Yes I do," I mutter, swiping at my damp eyes with the back of my hand, still quivering. "My daughter could've been attacked by a big-ass dog or gotten hit by a car if it wasn't for you, so…what can I do to make it up to you for screaming at you like that?" _And insinuating that you're a creepy pedophile in front of the elderly and their own grandchildren._

As we're standing here by the door, beneath the sun and in close proximity to one another, I notice little things about his face that I had not seen before. His cheekbones are high and defined below his striking pair of eyes, green as emeralds and framed by dark lashes that remind me of Tate's. His nose is mostly straight and yet the slightest bit off-center. It's still the coppery hair that strikes me as oddly familiar, and maybe his nose is now, too. And yet I can't place his face to anyone I've ever met.

He's shaking his head. "No, no," he says hastily, cheeks tinged with pink. "Don't worry about that. It's fine. It's done and over with. Go—go sit with your daughter; she looks kinda lonely." He nods in her direction, and sure enough, the pitiful bean is watching us anxiously with a pout on her full lips, rejection and sadness in her red-rimmed eyes. My heart fully rips in two. _This is your fault, Bella._

Despite having so many more things to apologize for, my instinct is to just leave it be and go to her. So I walk away and return to Tate, whose lower lip trembles when I approach. I shush her and wrap her in my arms, pressing my face into her hair, fighting tears of my own. If that had turned out any different, I would be with the police right now, frantic for her. If I was right and my daughter _was_ about to be kidnapped, or had been already—Jesus, I don't know. And then if the waiter hadn't seen her get off her chair and run to the door, she'd be on her way to the hospital from either getting mauled by a ginormous dog or slammed into by a car. I try so hard to keep her safe and away from danger. In another world, I failed.

"Shh, it's okay," I whisper when she sobs, lifting her into my arms and getting back on my stool. I put her on my lap and hug her from behind, kissing her wet cheek. I grab a napkin and wipe her face. She sniffles, her tiny nose red. If I knew it'd lighten the mood, I'd joke and say she looks like Rudolph the reindeer. "It's okay, my love. Don't cry. I'm not mad at you." The Mommy bloggers would suggest I take her into the bathroom and explain to her that what she did was wrong and that I'm disappointed in her for not listening to me. Well, screw them, because right now that's the absolute last thing I want to do—especially not on her birthday. I should scold her for running off but I just _can't_. I should be a parent and teach her why that was dangerous but I just _can't_. I want to make _her_ feel better and enjoy her birthday again. Because that's all I know how to do, make my baby happy.

But I still gotta put on my big girl panties and talk to her about it later tonight when I give her a bath. As hard as it'll be, this can't happen again on anyone's watch.

"C'mon, eat your pancake." I slide her plate over and cut her a bite, feeding it to her, fondly recalling the first time she ate solid food at almost seven months old. But I let her finish her breakfast herself, silently resting my chin on her shoulder.

I dread the moment the waiter and I have to speak again when it's time to pay for our food. Shame prickles at my skin—I have a feeling that'll stick with me for a while. I'll be up until three in the morning tonight, replaying my mistake over and over again in my head, choking on mortification. It's like all those times I tripped in the school hallway in front of everyone or gave the wrong answer in class or told a stupid joke to people who didn't laugh—only so much worse. This is, without a doubt, the most awkward situation I've ever been in. My daughter's fourth birthday is now tainted by what happened here.

Tate solemnly puts her coloring book and crayons in her Disney backpack. The waiter and I exchange nothing more than a handful of cash and a receipt that he quickly writes something down on before handing it to me. We smile, tight-lipped and wary of each other. Then he grins at Tate and wishes her a happy birthday once more—her downcast face lights up. At least she's not mad at _him_.

Leaving and stepping back out into the fresh, cool air is strange after being inside the diner for what seems like hours. It got chilly while we were in there, and I regret not bringing a jacket for Tate just in case this happened. I hold her hand and we make our way back to the car, all plans for ice cream and playing in the park forgotten. My mind is buzzing, spinning a mile a minute. Tate watches her pink polka-dotted rain boots as we walk, deliberately stepping on the sidewalk cracks.

We reach my car, a family friend's old Mercedes, and for once I haven't left my keys behind. I help Tate into her car seat and get her situated, then finally do the same for myself. I lean back in the padded seat, taking a slow, deep breath. I'm holding the receipt in my hand, and I replay the memory of watching the waiter suddenly grabbing a pen and adding to it as I lift it up to read, squinting at the slanted print with bleary eyes. _I'm sorry_ , it says, and I can almost hear the unneeded apology in his smooth voice. It occurs to me that I never even got his name, that I've been referring to the poor guy as "the waiter" this whole time. How rude of me—surely he was wearing a nametag. But my brain is too shot to remember clearly.

And yet there's one profound detail that sticks out above all the rest. As we uncomfortably stood in the doorway looking at one another, waiting for the other to speak or do _something_ , there was a fleeting second where his eyes met mine and I swear I saw recognition in them, too. (But, you know, I could just be vain and making up shit to comfort my wounded dignity. Oh well.)

I heave a sigh and place the receipt beside me in the passenger's seat along with my phone and wallet. I glance over my shoulder at Tate, smiling a little when I see she's starting to nod off. I put the keys in the ignition and drive home silently.

* * *

"Be a good girl for Miss Daisy, okay?" I brush Tate's wild curls back from her grumpy face. "You're gonna have lots and lots of fun with everyone today. Miss Daisy even told me she has a special surprise for you because it's your birthday." My sullen four-year-old just stares at me with an eyebrow raised even though I'm telling the truth. Miss Daisy really does have a surprise. "And all your friends are so excited to see you and play with you. Aren't you excited to see them, too?" (Apparently not. She looks like she'd rather commit homicide.)

Tate sighs through her nose and rolls her big brown eyes at her silly, overenthusiastic mama. She gives me a hug, though, I squeeze her extra tightly and give her two more kisses than usual. It's taking everything I have in me not to leave with her right now and drive straight back to Forks, our real home, where everything is less stressful and I have Charlie close.

"I love you," I whisper into my baby's hair. "I love you so much. We're gonna celebrate when we get home later tonight—we'll Skype with Grandpa and Nana and open presents and _then_ we'll have ice cream. Alright? I won't forget about you."

Tate manages a tiny smile, and nods her agreement. We hug one more time, then I push her gently toward Miss Daisy, a short plump girl with honey-colored hair and kind blue eyes. I blow Tate a kiss then reluctantly head back to the car. Miss Daisy bends down to Tate's level, saying something in her ear. My eyes are already overflowing with tears but Tate can't see them through the glass. She waves at me sadly but points to her chest, makes a hand heart, and then points to me.

I do the same, wave once more, then force myself to drive away. I pointedly avoid looking in the rearview mirror. I would not be able to emotionally handle seeing her face crumple as she watches me abandon her on her fucking birthday. I am suddenly very thankful for waterproof mascara since I have to cry and don't really have time to reapply anything at work.

It occurs to me that this is the very first time Tate and I have been apart on her birthday. From the day itself, we've never had to separate due to my work schedule or anything else. Every other birthday has been eventful and memorable. And I blame myself for it. I made the decision to screw it up.

Not consciously, of course. I didn't move us here thinking I'd ruin her fourth birthday. I moved us here because I thought I was doing the right thing for _her_ , to give _her_ a chance at living in a place full of opportunities. Forks is tiny and I feared she would get bored of it someday, that too much green and rainy skies would depress her, take away her smile like it stole my mother's. I love Forks out of obligation because it was my home since I was twelve. But Tate? I got her away from there before it snatched her happiness right out of her. There's a…weird sort of darkness in Forks. The longer you stay, the less likely you are to leave. But I managed to detach myself from it for my daughter's sake. The only good thing left to go back to is Charlie.

I find the last remaining parking spot and cut the engine, taking a moment to dry my eyes and put on a fresh coat of red lipstick that matches my dark scarlet shoes and dress. (Tate chose my outfit for me today. She insisted I wear red for some reason.) I grab my cell and organized folder of work-related documents and step out of the car, facing the towering building with a sigh. It seems bigger than I remember it being yesterday. I lock the car and head towards it unwillingly, because it's just what I have to do every day.

* * *

"Morning, Bella." Mr. Warner saunters onto the seventh floor five minutes after I do. I glance at the clock; twelve oh four. Not exactly morning any longer. The shadows under his dull grey eyes are prominent and it looks like he forgot to brush the right side of what's left of his artificially darkened hair. I give him what I hope is a pleasant smile. I'd rather grimace.

"Ready for the meeting today?" I ask in a bogusly chipper voice. Part of my job is to build him up with confidence, even though the guy is already bursting with it. Most of the people in this building are the same. I haven't been here long but I know one of these days I'll be tempted to make a voodoo doll of Mr. Warner just to literally stick it to him when he does something incredibly haughty or, with my luck, inappropriate. _Dear Lord, please don't let today be that day._

Mr. Warner sighs, rubbing the shiny spot on his wide forehead. "Not really," he answers bleakly. "I'd rather go back to bed."

 _You and me both, pal._ "Is there anything I can get you?" I offer, gritting my teeth in irritation. "I can fetch you a coffee." _Fetch? Really? Since when do people say that?_

"That would be great." A relieved smile. "Two sugars, please." I nod my understanding and he heads for his office at the end of the hall. I glance at my picture of a two-year-old Tate taped to the corner of my computer screen, my reminder to do my best and why I have to. I lean forward and kiss her miniature baby face, then I walk with my head high to the café.

* * *

Miss Daisy tells me Tate took a nap for most of the day. The special surprise she planned was a craft project for all the kids to enjoy while still celebrating Tate—all of her favorite things were incorporated into it, but she was the only one who wound up quitting after ten minutes. All Tate did was scribble a picture of her pony sticker on a piece of paper but never colored it in or added glitter like she usually does to all her other drawings. I look at it with love, however. I think it's perfect.

Tate dozes in the car on the slow drive home. Mr. Warner let me go an hour early after remembering it was her birthday. I discovered he has an eleven-year-old nephew he raises with his sister after her husband left a couple years ago, and has since become a replacement father figure to the boy, who he is now close with. "I had to work the first Christmas Eve he and his mom spent with me," he said to me, staring at the picture of them on his desk I had never noticed before. "I was sick about it when I came home real late. He stayed up for me, though, wanted to wait for me to help him put out milk n' cookies for Santa; that was a thing he used to do with his dad. So we've done that together ever since." I wanted to cry.

And so he understood my eagerness to be with Tate, and in that moment I think it was a genuine gesture on his part.

Unfortunately the sun has now disappeared behind the clouds, relevant to both our moods. The sky is a murky greyish-purple, tinged with bright pink and orange at the edge. Tate fell asleep in awe over its beauty. Her eyelids flutter, mouth hanging open a little, drooling.

We make it back to the apartment building right as it's beginning to drizzle. I swing her tiny backpack over my shoulder and lift her out of her car seat, setting her on my hip, carrying her with one arm since I have to hold my phone, wallet, and keys with the other. She's small and lightweight and I've been doing it for a while, so it's not too big of a challenge. I rest my cheek on the top of her head as I stand in the elevator, leaning heavily against the wall. I can't wait to put on some sweatpants.

Tate still doesn't stir when I unlock the door and carry her inside all the way to her room where I lay her down in bed. She merely yawns and rolls onto her tummy, burying her face in the corner of her pillow like I do. Setting her backpack on the edge of her mattress, I sit by her feet and take off her boots, plopping them on the floor. Baby girl smiles in her sleep. I smile too, kicking my painful heels to the carpet, crawling up next to her and reaching out to rub her back. I forget what I planned on doing when we got home, instead deciding to just nap with her for a bit until we get hungry enough to wake up. I go over her presents one last time in my head and my smile only grows. They'll make up for my absence, I'm sure of it.

I haul the both of us out of her cozy bed thirty minutes later, not wanting to waste any time since she actually has to go to sleep at eight thirty and I have to go in early for work tomorrow, so as much as I'd love to let her stay up, real life gets in the way. As usual.

With my hair in a messy bun and red dress hung back in my closet, replaced by a pajama top and sweatpants, I heat up a can of SpaghettiO's while Tate talks to Charlie and Sue on Skype, telling them all about her day. I appreciate it when she doesn't mention the fact that I basically deserted her at daycare all afternoon, instead saying _we_ had a fun time doing a craft. They ask her what she thinks she's getting from me; I make a face, shrugging innocently as I hand over her dinner.

"Well, sweetheart, we mailed out our present a few days ago," Charlie says. Tate's eyes pop, spoon in the air. "Oh yeah, you're gonna love it." I roll my eyes. Charlie's idea of a good birthday present is usually some weird shit only he likes. I'd be shocked if she gets something she _actually_ could use or play with. Fingers crossed it's just a simple paint by numbers.

I take my own bowl of SpaghettiO's and go sit on the couch since I'm not interesting enough to join the convo. Tate and my dad always have some funny story to tell each other, whereas I work all day and don't do much else. Hardly exciting.

"I wish you were here, Gran'pa," Tate murmurs forlornly several minutes later. My throat tightens and tears burn at my eyes. _What have I done?_

Charlie sighs, almost wearily, and I hear Sue make a sad little sound in the background. "I do too, pumpkin." His voice is scratchy with emotion. I've hurt him by leaving, too. "But—but don't be too sad. We won't be apart forever. Your mom is gonna get Thanksgiving and Christmas off from her job so we'll get to see y'all then. Ain't that right, Bells?" Tate turns to stare at me anxiously. I act like I haven't been paying attention, too immersed in the dumb Spongebob episode that's on right now. I slurp at my SpaghettiO's. Of course, my dad is right; my boss isn't working on the holidays. Well, not this year, at least. After what happened almost two years ago with his nephew, I don't think he would do that again. I certainly will put my foot down if I'm wrong. Working on my daughter's birthday is bad enough, but to miss Christmas? I don't believe there's anything in the financing and product sales department that's important enough to keep me from—

Oh. _Finances_ and _product sales_ skyrocket during the holidays. Mr. Warner might need _me_ if _his_ boss needs _him_. Fuck. It never occurred to me once when I interviewed for the job that sometimes this shit happens. It's unfortunate but it does. I would be considered the devil in Tate's eyes if I told her we couldn't go back to Forks for Christmas. Our family can't come to Seattle because my apartment is small enough as it is and with two adults and a couple of teenagers—Sue's two kids, a volatile, sour-faced girl named Leah and a chipper, sunshiny boy named Seth, fourteen-year-old twins who happen to be my step-siblings—affording a hotel for over a week (since I assume they'd stick around for New Year's) is…not possible.

"Oh—uh, yeah," I say quickly, realizing they're still waiting for a confirmation. I put on a smile for Tate and nod. "Yup! I'll have lots of time off." _You dumbass. Don't make promises you can't keep._ "Well—about a week or two. But—but, yeah. Don't worry about it, Tate, we'll all be together for Christmas." I sound panicky under my cheerful mask, and Charlie looks doubtful.

"Okay." Tate starts smiling again and returns to her dinner. Through the computer screen, Charlie is eyeing me funny, like he's acknowledging the possibility of our Christmas plans being thwarted. I avoid him, attempting to calm my pounding heart. This could be bad.

Nothing has even happened to delay anything yet and I'm already starting to freak out. Christmas 2014 _cannot_ be ruined.

Soon enough, my noodles get cold and I'm not hungry anymore. Everybody has gone quiet; Tate's eyelids are drooping with fatigue. I put both our bowls in the sink, then join her at the counter to say goodbye to our little family. Seth pops in at the last second (Leah yells a halfhearted "Happy birthday!" from somewhere in their living room) and Tate kisses them all on the screen, waving happily. I tell my dad I'll call him soon, even though it's a conversation I'm not anticipating, and thank him and Sue for taking the time to talk to Tate. I hide my emotion when Charlie says it was a pleasure. Thirty years will go by and I'll still be perpetually grateful for how much he endlessly loves my baby. That's a sacred gift within itself.

"You still up for presents?" I ask her when I close out Skype and shut the computer. She's rubbing her eyes with a yawn.

"Yeah, yeah," she says in muted enthusiasm, and I laugh. I put her on my hip and carry her to my room, playfully tossing her onto my unmade bed. She giggles and scrambles to her knees. I open my closet door and bend down to retrieve all five of her gifts. I'm giddy now, biting my lip to keep from looking like a psycho clown. Tate gasps in surprise when she sees the two colorful gift bags in my hands, rainbow tissue paper concealing what's tucked inside them. Her eyes are huge.

"Okay." I plop down beside her and cross my legs. "Which one do you wanna open first, my dear?" I wave the gift bags in front of her amazed face good-naturedly. She stares at both, trying to decide. She sticks out her tiny tongue.

"This one!" Thankfully, she snatches the left one from me and tears into it, throwing the paper over her shoulder. I watch, not wanting to miss a second of her reaction, as she pulls out two mini My Little Pony playsets with figurines. Her mouth forms a dramatic O and she sucks in a theatrical breath before screaming—very quietly, since people are asleep by now.

"You like them?" I demand, laughing, but I think jumping up and down and clutching them to her chest is her gleeful answer. She's so precious when she's excited and seeing her so indescribably thrilled after her disappointing day makes my eyes wet. She leaps on me and gives me a huge hug, thanking me repeatedly in a breathless voice. She really wanted both.

"You're very welcome." I kiss her warm forehead and set her in my lap. "Okay, let's open the other one now. Ya ready?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" Tate bounces some more, now reaching for the other small bag, a hungry look in her gleaming eyes.

She's overjoyed to get this cute Littlest Pet Shop cat that comes with a pair of summer sunglasses and a beach chair. It caught her attention in Target a couple months ago, along with the similar pony toys, and she is just as adorably ecstatic to have it. She squeals and kicks her feet in delight when the _Cat in the Hat_ DVD appears; she's wanted it ever since she saw it at daycare—she went around quoting everything for an entire week. I tell her we'll watch it together on my day off.

That leaves us with the last and most significant gift. Tate peers at the bottom of the bag, tilting her head in confusion. I reach in and pull out the velvet box, trying to steady my nervous, trembling hands. She seems to sense how important it is and sets aside the movie and her toys. I hold her close, gazing at the box in my fingers, thinking of what I want to say and how exactly I want to say it. Maybe it's the wrong time to give it to her, since she's so young and probably won't be as interested in it as her other gifts, but something inside me whispers that it's okay, she'll have it until she understands.

"This is very special," I begin slowly, tasting the words in my mouth. Tate is motionless, looking at the box too. "And I—I really want you to have it. It's different than your toys, and it's fine if you don't want it right now, but what it means to me is…profound. That's when you feel something really deeply in your heart. And I feel this in mine. It's very important."

I crack open the case and lift the lid. Nestled inside is a golden locket, perfect and shiny and new. Engraved on its sleek front are the words _Plus que ma propre vie_. It can fit in the palm of Tate's small hand, which fits in mine, and we hold the box for a while, admiring the locket. I can't stop the few tears from escaping my eyes, rolling down my cheeks to my chin. I taste salt and I don't have a single thought in my head that isn't bursting with the sheer, never-ending force of my _profound_ love for Tate.

"This means 'more than my own life,'" I explain softly, lightly tracing the cursive letters. "And that's how much I love you."

Baby girl looks up at me. I see myself reflected in the chocolate depths of her eyes, see the wet trails on my cheeks. "It opens, look," I murmur, urging her to redirect her attention back to the locket. There is a picture of us in it, taken in 2011 on her first birthday. She's wearing green striped leggings with a sweet pink ruffled top that has a yellow duck on it. She is in my arms, laughing at Charlie behind the camera, while I smile at the lens so broadly my eyes crinkle just like his do.

I kiss my sweet girl's temple and give her a squeeze. "Isn't it pretty?" I ask her hopefully, and she nods her head happily. I smile into her curls. "Good. I'm glad you like it. Wanna try it on?" I carefully lift it from the velvet and untangle the chain for her, then slip it over her head and around her neck. Tate smiles, touching it gently. Somehow I think she understands. She knows how much I love her, at the very least. She can hear it in my voice. That's all that matters to me, really. Tate needs to know her mama loves her and appreciates her for who she is. She's respected and important. She is the sun—my sun. And despite the glaringly obvious fact that she has somebody else's chin, somebody else's hands, somebody else's ears, and somebody else's smile, nothing will change the reality that she is _mine_. Nothing can take Tate from me.

"I love you too, Mommy." She buries her little face in my chest, fiercely hugging my waist. "We will always be together."

 _I'm counting on it, sunshine._ We sit here like this for a very long time, saying nothing yet saying everything. If there's one thing I learn tonight, it's this: do not underestimate the power of a child's love. Because I sure am feeling her love for me.

* * *

 _Aaand there you have it, folks._

 _I'm quite proud of this and I hope it was worth the wait! I've been so eager and anxious to share this with y'all so I'm crossing my fingers for a good reception. I'm still working on chapter 2 right now but if by some miracle I get it done by the 8th, I'll edit and publish it on the 9th! If not then, the Saturday after that. :P (You all know how bad I am at keeping promises...)_

 _Please consider leaving a review, even the shortest of comments gives me a boost of confidence and pushes me to continue writing. I haven't shared my work in a long time and it's always nice for any writer to get some positive feedback! Also, constructive criticism is welcome but please be respectful, I'm still learning and growing as a writer every day._ _And to clarify before anyone asks: Edward is **not** Tate's father. The reason for that - as well as Bella thinking he looks familiar - will be explained in future chapters and I can say for certain that I won't throw in a twist at the last minute just to shock everyone. That's not my style nor do I think it would add any depth or plot development to the story. I want Edward and Tate to be close despite not being biologically related :) I'm still working out the little things so questions about her real father, more details on how she was conceived, and what Edward's story is will all be explored later!_

 _Anywho, thank you so very much for reading! Chapter 2 will be posted soon._

 _Happy New Year!_

 _\- Cherry_


	3. Chapter 2: Girls' Night

_Told you I'm bad at keeping promises._

 _My sincerest apologies for the 4-week wait. Jesus. I don't even have a good explanation for that one except for I'm freaking lazy and have a hard time focusing. First I told myself I'd get it done by the 9th. Then the 16th. Then the 23rd. And now it's the 30th and I'm officially done with chapter 2. Hallelujah._

 _Special shout-out to my best girl KATIE because it's her momentous 20th birthday! Happy birthday, dude. I love you. Here's your present. Enjoy it._

 _I hope this was worth the ridiculously long wait. Thank you for being patient and not giving up on me yet, guys!_

 _Disclaimer - I don't own Twilight but this story idea as well as Tate belong to me._

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO: Girls' Night**

 _Bella_

Ever since I turned thirteen, there hasn't been much excitement surrounding my birthday. Well, everyone else gets hyped up, but I don't give a shit. And ever since I got my first cell phone (for my thirteenth, ironically), I've woken up to a bunch of sappy texts from friends and family members. Today isn't any different, and the never-ending chiming from my cell is my alarm this morning. I forgot to put it on silent and throw it in the drawer last night. Go figure. _Happy birthday, you idiot._

A sharp rapping at my door startles me out of the stupor I hadn't realized I'd fallen into. "Mommy, are you awake yet?" _It sure doesn't feel like it, babydoll._ When I don't answer right away, Tate knocks again, impatient now. "Mommy, wake up! I have a _surprise_!" She squeals a little and I hear her bare feet thump against the floor when she leaps once in excitement.

Oh, a surprise? From a four-year-old girl who probably demolished my kitchen with either our last carton of milk or pony stickers plastered all over the countertops I just cleaned and wooden cabinets I just polished? Fabulous. Sounds lovely.

"Give Mommy a few minutes, honeybun," I groan, stretching out my aching limbs and cracking my stiff neck, sighing as the pressure dissolves. I can't help but smile when Tate huffs at my unenthusiastic reply; she stomps off in the direction of our tiny living room, probably where she's been munching on her third bowl of Lucky Charms and unknowingly making a mess everywhere. My poor shiny coffee table that I spent an hour buffing up last night during a fit of anxiety over life.

Obligation to save my furniture before my daughter can cause any unintentionally permanent damage makes me pull my lazy ass out of bed. Scrubbing my hand over my face, I grumble to myself as I bend down to tug on my worn slippers. I really hope _somebody_ thought to get me a new pair. Nah, the most I'll get from anyone is money from Charlie and Sue to buy them on my own. Maybe a ten-dollar Target gift card from dear little Seth. He's always liked me a lot, and compared to his sister, who most likely wanted me to have moved to hell instead of Seattle, Seth is funny and kind and very sweet to Tate. She absolutely adores him; before we left, the first thing she did every time the Clearwaters came over was jump onto the kid's back and shriek with laughter as he walked on his hands and knees around the house, mimicking a puppy.

Over the television's too-loud volume, Tate somehow hears the creak of my door opening and hurries to stop me before I step out into the hallway, abruptly crashing into my legs. "Wait!" she yells in a panicky voice. "Wait, Mommy, not yet." I roll my eyes when she's not looking. First she begs me to get up but then instructs me to keep waiting for her "surprise."

"What, boo?" I sigh, trying not to sound as irritated as I feel. "What am I waiting for, baby?" I'm rather scared to find out.

"Close your eyes." Tate smiles and I give her a suspicious look. Christ, what has she done? "Close 'em! Hold my hand." Reluctantly, I squeeze my eyes shut tight and let her take my hand in both of hers. She guides me carefully to my doom and I'm surprised that I don't catch the smell of too much sugary cereal or spilt milk. The TV is definitely up too high but aside from that, my other available senses don't pick up on any immediate danger or icky things to have to get rid of. I wait for Tate to give me permission to finally see again, and when I warily open my eyes, her _surprise_ really surprises me.

It takes my breath away. I stand there in silence for a while, simply staring in awe, unable to believe what I'm looking at. I don't think anybody has ever done something as…heartfelt and precious as what Tate has done for me. The fact that my four-year-old daughter did this is astounding. Taped to the wall above the beige couch are pieces of construction paper, the brightly colored ones she never uses (she says they are only good enough for special occasions), with stunning little drawings of animals and people sketched on them. She cut patterned paper into the shape of a balloon with a string and placed it directly above the illustrations, _Happy Birthday Mommy_ written on the paper balloon in someone else's print. I assume she had help at one point, but in my current state of speechless awe it doesn't matter who. She did this for me?

"Tate…" I start to speak but quickly choke on the words. I bite my lip to suppress a sob, the decorations blurring when a wave of emotion slams into me like I'm standing in an ocean, the tears welling up fast in my wide, astonished eyes. Unable to express how I feel verbally, all I can do is look from the drawings to Tate, over and over again. She smiles, so proud of herself, and swings on my arm gently while she waits for me to tell her how much I love it, and I do. _Profoundly_.

I kneel in front of her and cup her tiny face in my hands. Her eyes are bright, red lips twitching with her broadening smile. We gaze at each other for a long time before I speak. "Tate," I repeat softly, smiling too, "you put all this up for Mama?"

She nods, curls bouncing. "Yeah!" she squeaks, pulling my hands away to hold them. "I wanted your bir'day to be really nice. So—so I made you pictures! D'you like it, Mommy?" The fact that she has to ask makes me wonder if I don't seem as proud of everything she does as I think. I always praise her art, genuinely impressed with whatever it may be, whether it's a simple sketch of a cat or a sparkly paper bracelet made at daycare. I sound so pretentious when I say this, but she truly has a gift when it comes to art. No four-year-old puts as much detail into it as Tate. Where does she get the energy and patience to do any of this stuff? I'm honestly shocked. I always knew she'd be good at something, but not like this.

"I _love_ it," I gush, overwhelmed. "It—it's beautiful, baby, really. I'm just a little—I can't believe you did this. _When_ did you do this?" I think I already have my answer. Yesterday when I picked her up from daycare, she had a folder filled with what obviously are the illustrations, holding it tightly to her chest and refusing to let me see what was inside it. Now I understand.

Tate simply grins shyly and looks down at her feet, shrugging. She's so proud of herself and it warms my heart. I wrap her up into a crushing hug and squeeze her really close until she giggles in my ear to let go, but I won't—neither will she.

* * *

"Mommy, why do you have t' work on your birthday?" Tate's voice is annoyed. She's wrinkling her nose, as if in disgust.

I laugh once. "A lot of mamas have to, kiddo," I sigh. "My boss is busy today and needs me, so I have to be there." We are at a stoplight so I glance over my shoulder to see her better. Her tiny face is confused, almost frustrated. And sad. I remember three weeks ago when I dropped her off at daycare on _her_ birthday, and she wore the same puzzled, dejected expression. Something twists in my stomach when it occurs to me how damaging this must be for my little girl. What am I _doing_ to her? Spending eight hours in a daycare with smelly, sticky, noisy children for six days a week is not what I call an ideal childhood. Only seeing me and being with me during the mornings and a short while at night before bed is not a good relationship to have. We get Sundays off and take advantage of that free time in the most fun ways possible—but it's not enough. Oh my God, I'm ruining my kid. What the fuck was I thinking, deciding to get such a demanding job here in a city that isn't our home? What the fuck was I thinking, subjecting my four-year-old to practically grow up at _daycare_? What the fuck was I thinking, breaking up our family and ripping her away from the one place we both truly called home?

I don't deserve Tate. I don't deserve someone so patient and sweet and thoughtful, someone who still loves me even if I have basically torn apart her life. The obvious fact that I didn't _need_ to move us here is glaring me right in the face. What is the point now? I know I wanted to come to Seattle for _her_ , so _she_ could escape the depressing greenery of Forks, but how is hardly seeing me and waiting for me to come pick her up at daycare any better than the damp confinement of the town we originated from? At least she had Charlie and Sue to happily look after her when I had my shifts at Newton's on Tuesdays and Saturdays. At least I got to both wake up and go home at a reasonable hour and be able to spend quality time with her. Now it's like we're opposing magnets; we want to be connected but because of my choice, we're slipping apart.

I don't realize how devastated my expression must be until Tate gives me a startled look and asks if I'm okay. I snap out of it, right as the light turns green and everyone else lurches forward. My stomach churns my measly breakfast of cereal and there's suddenly a sharp pain between my eyes. I need to talk to my dad. I could use some fatherly support.

* * *

Turns out today is an exceptionally busy day for Mr. Warner, so I don't get a chance to call Charlie for reassurance while I'm on a lunch break because I don't _have_ a lunch break. All day I'm running around in these damned two-inch heels, making phone calls to companies interested in working with ours, setting up meetings for Mr. Warner, faxing important documents to others. It's the same old, same old, only I feel like I'm working two regular days in one. By three o'clock, I just wanna go home. I want the safe, unassuming comfort of Forks, to step back into Charlie's house and take a nap in my old rickety bed with Tate. (It's funny how I talk shit about Forks when it's pretty much the only place I'd rather be a good percent of the time.)

At one point, though, I do get about five minutes to breathe and something to drink. I lean heavily against the wall next to the water dispenser, chugging a small cup in ten seconds. I savor the cold liquid sliding down my throat into my chest; I feel like I haven't stopped moving since I got here. My headache from earlier has unfortunately gotten worse, and I don't know what to do about that. Tylenol and Motrin only provide fleeting relief and I can't exactly go lie down in the dark and wait for it to subside. I sigh, frustrated, taking another sip of water. I start to wonder what Tate is doing. I really miss her.

I'm just about to leave and head back to my desk when the break room door bursts open and Jessica Stanley barrels in, curls in a wild state of disorder and blue eyes filled to the brim with fury—and tears. Lauren Mallory is following her (they are just as inseparable now as they were in high school), saying something about how so-and-so doesn't "deserve" Jess and that _he_ isn't the person they both apparently thought he was. Jess starts sob-screeching a moment later, distraught.

"He said he _loved_ me," she weeps, collapsing dramatically into a chair with her head in her hands. I raise my eyebrows. It strikes me as odd to envision innocent, cheerful, sweet Mike Newton— _Mike!_ —doing something as ghastly as cheating. I was his favorite person to sit next to at lunch when he moved to Forks and started attending high school; we were buds. And he was always nice to everyone, especially Jessica once she eventually caught his eye (he never admitted it, but he did have a crush on me for a while, until I encouraged him to ask her to go to prom instead, and they were together after that, joined at the hip and head over heels in love). It actually upsets me to think he went and had an affair. What an ass.

Forgetting my work duties, I plop into the chair next to Jess and give her a sympathetic look as she cries. We were good friends too, as soon as she was sure Mike and I didn't have any "unresolved tension or feelings" between us. Absolutely not. Mike was my friend and history partner, and nothing more. Him and Jess went on to the same college, and as far as I'm aware, got married. No kids yet, I don't think. They're both twenty-three. Jesus, twenty-three is too young for this to be happening to either of them. Too young for her to have her heart broken, their vows crushed. It doesn't make any sense.

Lauren stands behind her and smooths her tangled hair. Her eyes are rimmed with red and her face is tight, like she can't cry for Jessica's sake. I reach out and stroke Jess's shaking shoulder, trying to find words. We're not close but I want to help, out of genuine empathy. (And because a nasty part of me likes drama and I want to know what happened to Mike.)

"Okay, so," I begin slowly as soon as Jess stops shrieking like a banshee and calms slightly. "Uh, what exactly is going on?" I make a face, suddenly doubting my assumptions. If it turns out he didn't cheat, I'll be both surprised and relieved.

Surprised because that's the only explanation I can think of. Relieved because that means good old Mike isn't a cheater.

"She found someone else's number in Mike's phone," Lauren explains dismally, and my heart sinks. Well, shit. "And they were—um, _texting_ ," her voice drops to a whisper, "and it—well, you know." She wrinkles her nose in disgust and shivers.

I can't speak. God, what a mess. This is terrible. He was sexting with another woman? (Or a man, for all I know.) My mind is spinning—not a pleasant contribution to my already splitting headache. I'm clearly not an expert on relationships but it sure does make me wonder just how far apart couples can grow after a while instead of getting closer together. As soon as they all get married, that's when the trouble starts, and I don't get it. Why become unfaithful all of a sudden? Did your vows mean nothing to you? If you had doubts about your relationship before, getting married won't fix your problems. It has to be about communication and trust and respect, right? Honor that commitment and be honest with each other even before marriage. Either one or both of you are just setting each other up to fail and that seems like an awful way to end.

"Are—are you sure he—" I bite my lip, choosing my words carefully, but dropping the question before I ask it. This really isn't my place of knowledge. I settle for rubbing Jessica's shoulder again, chin in my hand as I think. Selfishly, I'm glad I didn't just find out _my_ significant other sexted with someone else. My reaction would probably be more angrily vengeful.

(The fact that I'd ever fall in love and be in a relationship to begin with is laughable, actually. I'd fuck up and deserve this.)

"I'm really sorry, Jess," I mumble, feeling stupid now. "You didn't deserve that. Okay? This is all on him. Don't—don't go blaming yourself for what he did." I pause, letting the words sink in. Lauren offers her a tissue and she dabs at her puffy eyes, sniffling. "I think what's best for you both now is to talk it out," I continue slowly. "I know you're hurt by this and your first instinct is to scream and cry and get mad, but throwing things or saying words you can't take back will haunt you for the rest of your life. When you get home later and—and he's there, or if he comes home later, it'll be really hard to see him, but—but you have to be rational. Just _talk_ to him. Sit him down and tell him you know what he was doing and if you can or can't move past it. I don't know why guys do these things—I don't know why _anybody_ does these things—but depending on the way _you_ handle it and how much you're both willing to try and get past it is up to you. If you truly love Mike—" Jess flinches, "—if you truly believe in him and in your relationship and want it to work, then you gotta make an effort. And if Mike isn't as loyal to your marriage and barely tries to do the same, at least you can walk away knowing you wanted it to work out. It'll hurt even more that he didn't, but you'll feel better if you at least tried yourself. Trying is nicer than giving up entirely."

 _Where the fuck did that come from?_ Jessica nods her understanding and wipes her nose with the tissue. Lauren is staring at me funny, like she can't believe single little Bella Swan could speak so intelligently about relationships. (As of a minute ago, I didn't either, but I guess staying up late binge-watching rom-coms sorta pays off. _Now_ I don't regret doing that, despite what Mommy bloggers might have to say about it. Still, at least I didn't spend those nights getting drunk. Thank God.) I ignore Lauren, an old habit that has resurfaced now that we've been in close proximity of each other for more than five minutes, and sit here marveling at my own words. Not to sound totally pretentious, but even I'm surprised that I gave relationship advice.

After a little while, Jessica gets a hold of herself and heaves an unhappy sigh, absentmindedly flattening her tissue. She looks up at me, fresh tears shining in her eyes. She smiles gratefully, reaching for my hand. "Thank you," she whispers—and when her voice cracks, I internally kick myself for sticking around to partly hear about the drama of her marriage. I'm a decent person most of the time but that was low—I shouldn't take pleasure in anybody else's pain, especially not hers.

Jessica suddenly gets a surprised look on her face and gasps quietly. "Isn't it your birthday today?" she asks randomly.

She almost seems excited about it. "Oh—yeah," I reply, startled by the unexpected change in her previously blue mood.

She brightens considerably and Lauren only stares at her apprehensively; she was always known for being spontaneous and unpredictable when it came to her "fun ideas" back in high school. Maybe that hasn't changed. "What are you gonna do to celebrate?" she continues, and I catch a glint of hope in her wide eyes, like she wants me to invite her somewhere.

My brow furrows. "Um…Nothing, really. I'll pick up Tate on my way home from work and we'll just chill at home, I guess." I shrug casually, but I smile at the happy memory of seeing the creative, colorful decorations my daughter made for me.

"Oh." Jessica droops noticeably and I wonder what she was expecting me to say. There's a brief pause before she suggests to me in an optimistic voice, "Well, do you wanna go out? Lauren and I don't have any plans. We could go out to dinner. You can bring Tate, of course, we don't have to go anywhere super fancy or—or whatever." She's rambling like she used to, completely distracting me from what I actually wanted to do. "You know, a girls' night!"

The last time I did anything remotely close to a girls' night with Jessica, I got pregnant. So I'm not too sure about it now.

Not to mention I haven't had a close-knit group of friends in three and a half years and don't know shit about socializing. Well, I do, to an extent. Imagining myself _going out_ with these two and toting my daughter along seems more intimidating than fun. How am I supposed to have a good time if I'm worried about Tate and what she's doing and how she feels? It's not like I can hire a babysitter at the last second; I wouldn't want anyone else taking care of my girl anyway. Tate has not met these ladies either, and I don't want her to be uncomfortable, specifically if there's even _one_ glass of wine involved. (I don't want to assume things about people but red wine is most likely Jessica's guilty pleasure. Better her than me.) And I think I'd rather gauge my eyes out with a spoon than spend more than ten minutes with Lauren outside of work. Oh God.

Despite all of this—as well as the natural inclination to avoid any "celebration" of my birthday as possible—I still say yes.

Jess lights up and Lauren forces a smile. (The feeling is mutual.) "Oh, yay!" Jess squeals, clapping, any sign of betrayal and heartbreak gone from her eyes. It occurs to me that maybe going out with friends will keep her mind off Mike, and it will postpone the inevitable yet hopefully peaceful confrontation they'll have to have about their marriage soon. I guess I can put aside my awkwardness for a few hours for her sake, as painful as it might be. As long as nobody drinks or gets high or starts crying in the middle of the restaurant, I think it'll be okay. Tate will behave. It's them I'm worried for.

"Where are we gonna eat?" I say _we_ because ultimately it's what Jess wants. Anywhere except a bar or night club is fine.

She contemplates for a minute, lips pursed. I kind of know what she's going to recommend before she does. "Oh, hey. You took Tate to that diner I mentioned, didn't you?" Yeah, the one where I accused an incredibly attractive waiter of trying to kidnap her. Nobody knows about that, though. I'm still trying to bury it deep in the back of my mind. "What'd you think?"

"It was nice," I answer nonchalantly, fixing my shoe to hide the dread in my eyes. "Yeah, we liked it. Tate did especially."

Lauren continues to act pleased at the impending reality of our evening together. Jess looks exuberant. "Oh, good," she chirps, clapping, suddenly reminding me of someone else we all used to know in school. Dark hair flashes in my head; I briefly see a shining smile, hear a chiming bell laugh. But the memory is gone in the same second and I can't get it back.

We plan to dress casually—praise the lord—and meet up at Half Century Diner at seven. I wonder if Lauren will bail at the last second (wouldn't put it past her, I'd do it too if I didn't feel bad for abandoning poor Jessica in her time of need). At least Tate will be excited—any chance she can get to have those pancakes is a chance she's going to take. I'm crossing my fingers you-know-who won't be working there tonight. Just my luck, I humiliated him so badly that he quit. Go figure.

* * *

Seven PM rolls around faster than I would have hoped. It's almost sad how much I dislike my birthday, and how little the day means to me as the years go by. I think I stopped caring when my mom died; she took the excitement for it with her and since then I just haven't given a shit. It's Tate's birthday I always look forward to. So Renée's loving impact lives on.

As expected, Tate is ecstatic to go out to dinner with me and my lady friends. She sits on my bathroom floor at my feet and plays with her new toys, babbling about what she did at daycare while I get ready. I'm trying to straighten all my long mahogany hair for once, or at least lessen the waves. Depending on the humidity or rain we'll get tonight, it might not be much of a success after a while. But it looks okay for now, and I'm almost done. Tate's already dressed. She looks cute as a button in her purple striped turtleneck, denim jumper, and brown fuzzy boots. Her crazy curls are pulled into pigtails on either side of her head the way I used to have mine when I was her age. Funny how she got my looks, like whoever in charge of fate and how the universe treats me decided to give me that much so I wouldn't wonder who fathered my child every time I look at her and saw somebody else's face. Well, I wonder who her daddy is despite that but thanks anyway.

"All righty, honeybun, you ready to go?" I smooth my now straight hair back from my face and pointedly unplug the iron from the wall. I try to sound convincingly eager to leave but my incredibly perceptive four-year-old sees through my shit.

A line forms between her pretty doe eyes. "It's your birthday, Mama," she reminds me. "Shouldn't you be happy today?"

Christ, she's observant. "I _am_ happy," I tell her, sitting down on my knees in front of her. I reach out to touch her chubby rose-colored cheek; she doesn't flinch. "I'm going out to dinner with my best girl. That's you. How could I not be happy?"

She keeps staring at me with her head tilted to the side like a confused puppy. "You don't look happy," she says softly.

Now I'm just as puzzled as she appears to be, and concerned. Are my attempts at being enthusiastic that bad? Do I look miserable all the time? I don't show my general disapproval of the world in front of Tate. I save that for late-night texts to Angela Weber. I mean, it's no secret to myself anymore that I sort of regret uprooting my kid and moving us to Seattle. I wish I'd thought that over a little more. But I never act sad or bored or wistful around my daughter. We're connected, and I know she'd start to worry and reflect my mood, so I put on a game face and be strong for her. That's what mothers do.

Maybe I try to look happier than I feel but it's either not working anymore or never did in the first place.

Tate crawls into my lap and gives me a hug. I sit back and lean against the wall, holding her small body in my arms. She is my entire world, and while _she_ makes me the happiest person alive, it kills me to think I'm not doing enough for her to ensure she's content. She never complains about a damn thing. She always smiles when she sees me. She laughs at the silliest shit and tells the funniest jokes. She seems happy too, right? What if that's a façade as well, what if I'm failing her?

"You make me happy," I murmur into her shoulder and giving her a squeeze. It's all I can say right now. I don't know how else to reassure her. She just needs to hear it. "You are my sunshine. I am so lucky to have you—don't ever forget that."

"I won't, Mommy," Tate whispers, tugging on a lock of my hair. "I just want you to be happy on your birthday like I was."

I struggle to fight back a wave of tears. She's too good to me; I don't deserve someone as understanding as Tate. "You had a good birthday?" I ask doubtfully, remembering that slightly awful day with a pained grimace, but she nods quickly and pulls away to settle in my lap. She pats my face, a small smile on her lips. My tense expression reflects in her eyes.

We sit here in silence for a while, probably longer than we should. She continues to play with my hair and it takes all that I have in me to not break down crying. Eventually I remember our dinner plans, and like any other adult and mom with an obligation, I force myself to get up off the bathroom floor, bringing Tate with me. I tell her to go get her backpack and a jacket while I brush my hair one last time before we go. I decide I look nice—almost pretty. Skipping past me, Tate tells me I am a princess.

* * *

Similar to my first day attending Forks Junior High, walking up to Half Century Diner again makes me want to hurl. I wish I had lied and said we didn't enjoy eating there just to get out of returning. How stupid is that, though? I'm so hung up on the _little incident_ with the redheaded waiter that I'm genuinely frightened of going back and having to face him again. I'm sure he's already put it behind him, unlike me, and on the drive there I try to convince myself that worse things have went down—although I don't think it's every day you get accused of being a predatory kidnapper; that must have been a first.

Tate holds my hand, skipping merrily beside me. The diner is lit up bright from the inside, packed with customers like the first time we came. I hold my breath as Tate opens the door. I don't have time to check and see if the waiter is here when Jessica barrels out of nowhere and tackles me in a hug. I stumble slightly from the force of her impact but Tate steadies me automatically; a moment later she's clutching my right leg, clearly startled by this overexcited, bushy-haired stranger.

"Jess, let her breathe." Lauren appears, rolling her eyes, and wrenches Jess off of me. My hand instinctively goes to my daughter's head to soothe her. I should have warned her that Jessica is a bit…high-strung, even friendlier than necessary.

"Sorry," she squeaks, tossing her hair back from her grinning face. I scoop Tate up into my arms to set her on my hip. "I'm just really happy you could make it. Both of you!" She beams at Tate now, and her eyes melt adoringly. I'm already betting on dinner being me and Lauren attempting to make good conversation while Jessica becomes Tate's new best friend.

"Say hi," I urge Tate. She's not used to meeting new people, either, but I know she'll warm up to them shortly. "These are my friends from work. This is Jessica, and that's Lauren. Tell them thank you for inviting us." Meaning, do it for Mommy.

"Hi," Tate says softly, waving. Jess waves back, completely enamored by her; she's the heart-eyes emoji in human form. She only falls more in love when Tate thanks them shyly, and even Lauren cracks a charmed smile. (Tate _is_ irresistible. I know I said I wouldn't be _that mom_ but sometimes I just can't help myself. She really is all I have to love at the moment.)

Lauren and Jessica managed to snag the last available booth, and Tate feverishly crawls across the cushy seat to sit by the window, but she has to turn around and look out the glass from behind if she wants a nice view since there's an alley right next to us. She sits on her knees and presses her little fingertips against the glass, but I pull them away before she can make unnecessary prints that somebody shouldn't have to clean up. I tickle her back, and she squeals with laughter. She shrugs off her poofy coat and flops down on her bottom beside me.

Jess starts talking about what to order (I forgot what an appetite this girl has). I guess she's been here quite a few times, since she can recite the dinner menu off the top of her head without having to look at it first, which is kind of impressive.

I am in the middle of debating getting steak and potatoes for me and Tate when lo-and-behold, _you-know-who_ shows up.

I don't really know what I was expecting. He works here, doesn't he? He has to make a living somehow, and even though batshit crazy mommies accuse him of pedophilia and kidnapping (like one time), he needs to get past that in order to be paid. That in itself should be rewarded; if I were him, I'd be just as afraid to come back to work and seeing me again as I am right now seeing him. And he's walking towards our table, notepad in hand, pencil behind his ear, ready to talk to us.

Tate senses his approach and looks up automatically. Recognition instantly lights in her eyes and she beams at him—he brightens considerably when he spots her as well, a crooked smile gracing his face; he resembles a model on a billboard.

"Hey there, little lady," he greets her in a near drawl, and she's quite literally bouncing in her seat. Lauren and Jess glance at him once and their eyes imitate my daughter's. Out of the corner of mine, I see Jessica nudge Lauren with her elbow; I have to restrain from snickering at their obvious reaction to his godlike features. (I can't judge, of course—I'm the same, only not as obvious. I hope.)

"I remember you!" Tate practically shouts. "You gave me my pony sticker on my birthday! D'you remember me, mister?"

"I _do_ remember you," he says, and my friends look like they're about to melt from how cute this is. "Your name is Tate—you ordered the chocolate pancake with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top." Oh, and your mother was psychotic!

Wide-eyed Tate seems shocked that he knows her name; come to think of it, I can't recall ever saying it around him. Huh.

"I put my Rarity sticker on my door!" she announces joyfully, still bouncing. "Right next t'—t' all my other pony stickers!"

"Really?" He looks genuinely touched that she kept it. I wonder if he bought the rest of the stickers for the diner himself.

"Yeah!" Tate's voice squeaks an octave higher and the seat we share shakes with the force of her jumping. I'm surprised she's having such a delighted reaction to this man, considering he freaked her out that day when he kept her from leaving.

Without having any previous intention of speaking to him, I hear myself say suddenly, "Yeah, she loves it so much that I keep joking with her to just marry it." I scrunch my nose at Tate and she finally sits down, giggling.

"I'm glad you like it," the waiter tells her, and I notice _his_ cheeks are tinted pink, just a little bit. Christ, he's handsome _and_ nice to kids? Whoever winds up with him is one lucky person. What I wouldn't give for someone like that. I sigh internally.

Jess and Lauren are clearly thinking the same thing because when he asks them what they'd like to order, Lauren stutters and Jess's face turns fifty shades of scarlet after being caught staring. The waiter simply presses his lips together, as if to keep from smiling. What a little shit. (He must get this a lot, though, no doubt. Who _wouldn't_ want him to serve them?)

"Uh—we haven't decided yet," Lauren finally blurts out, composing herself. She awkwardly clears her throat. Three times.

"That's fine. Would you rather start with some drinks?" He arches an eyebrow at her dramatic coughing. For God's sake.

She nods and gives him a fluttery-eyed, grateful smile. "A water for me, please." Jessica bobs her head in agreement. A prickly feeling something akin to irritation crawls up my spine. I stick my tongue in my cheek to prevent a sarcastic word or two from slipping out and ruining the whole night. Now I know for sure that Lauren hasn't changed a bit since high school. Stuck-up, annoyingly theatrical, and always after somebody else's man. I can count on one hand how many girls she screwed over by basically seducing their unassuming yet unfaithful boyfriends. (Wouldn't surprise me if she was the one Mike sexted with. That's a spiteful thing for me to think, but being around her is bringing back old memories. Oops.)

"I'll have a Coke," I say through partly gritted teeth, still glowering at Lauren. I now imagine her with devil horns and a tail.

"Okey dokey." The waiter jots down our order then says to my daughter, "And for you, little lady? What would you like?"

"Chocolate milk," Tate replies cheerily, not looking up from her coloring book. "With extra chocolate, please," she adds.

He laughs, scribbling her request beneath mine. "Alright, be back in a minute." I swear on my dead mother's life he winks at me before turning and heading for the kitchen. Now I'm the one gawking, momentarily forgetting my beef with Lauren.

 _Momentarily_ , of course. As soon as he disappears I'm back to boiling on the inside. Lauren and Jessica look stunned—I can't help but be a hypocrite and want to laugh at their almost exaggerated reactions. They start whispering like the good old days and naturally I'm excluded from their gossip. Jesus, it's like we're all sixteen again. I glance at Tate and realize I didn't have her yet when I was sixteen. I nonchalantly celebrated my birthday that year not knowing three months later I'd get knocked up at a party. Funnily enough, she exists because Jessica invited me. I practically owe Jess for that. Damn.

Well, in a way. I said no at first. But then I had that massive blow-out with Charlie over some stupid shit and decided two hours later to sneak out and go to Jessica's "holiday" party. Her parents were out of town and everyone invited was told not to breathe a word of it to anybody outside of school. Forks is tiny and news gets around pretty quickly—ironically, it would have been my dad, the chief of police, who'd be the one to break the whole thing up and send people home. And I didn't originally plan on drinking or consuming anything other than whatever finger foods Jess had laid out, but to spite Charlie—and clearly not thinking about the consequences—I had a couple beers and wound up chatting with some guy. The guy I drunkenly got into bed with—the guy who gave me my child, my life, my _purpose_. Now how am I supposed to regret him? How am I supposed to regret the choices I made when they led me straight to my daughter? I need Tate like I need air or food or water or sleep. I tell myself constantly that good things can still come out of bad experiences or decisions. Tate was given to me because I made multiple mistakes, but she's the silver lining behind those dark clouds. I've learned that not everything happens for a reason—sometimes life just sucks ass—but in this instance, she is my reason for anything.

I'm looking at Tate with that same devastated expression from earlier this morning in the car; my face reflects against the windowpane beside her and the sudden drizzle outside makes it seem like I'm crying. I hold back my tears and lean over to kiss her head. Surprised by my random display of affection, she smiles sweetly and pats my cheek in quiet response.

As expected, our waiter is showered with overenthusiastic thanks by Lauren and Jessica when he returns with our drinks. Tate gets hers first, and both our jaws fall open at the fancy vintage glass filled to the top with chocolate milk. He added a thin circle of whipped cream around the brim and a red umbrella as if he were serving an alcoholic beverage. Jess eyes my daughter's drink enviously, and I have to admit, I am too. Lauren isn't as impressed—maybe she noticed my hostility and wants to stick it to me by not fawning over my kid. That's fine—as long as she doesn't say anything snarky to Tate.

"Oh, wooow!" Tate looks happier in this moment than she has been in her entire life. And that's a whole lot of happiness.

The waiter laughs, visibly pleased about her ecstatic reaction. I take a second to finally search his shirt for a nametag so later I can thank him properly if I get the chance. Something soft like a distant memory flickers in the back of my mind—my eyes find his name written in bold caps and the six letters connect with my brain. _Edward_. Edward, Edward. Edward?

I snap out of my stare before it can start to get borderline creepy. Didn't I know an Edward once? What an old name. It's not a name you'd call your kids nowadays, or even twenty to twenty-five years ago (or however old this guy is). And yet, despite the dated sound, it fits him. Well, his physical appearance, at least, I don't know his actual personality to say for certain if it's the perfect name. But I think it is. I think he's a good person, too. No stranger goes out of their way for Tate like he has. People don't care as much as he does. They can be nice, but never like this. Anybody else might have been so upset with me that they'd kick us out of the restaurant after what I did; anybody else might have turned around in fear of having to see me again tonight and asked someone else to serve our table. But not him. Maybe it was Tate that gave him the confidence to keep walking towards us. Whatever it was that made him do so, I'm grateful. My girl is so excited.

I swear she's going to crawl over my lap to give him a big hug. "Thank you, mister!" Jesus, she hasn't looked this joyful since the last time we were here and he generously gave her that pony sticker. It's like her chocolate milk is a sacred gift from God himself. Well, it's obvious that she'll keep asking for it if we come back again. I have a hesitant feeling we will.

"Oh! Guess what, mister!" Tate pipes up, her doe eyes alight as she remembers something. "It's my mommy's birthday!"

I suppress a self-conscious groan, slightly mortified now. There's that devastating smile again. "Well, I guess that means she deserves _her_ special birthday sticker, too. I'll be right back." Edward tucks the tray under his arm and he walks away before I can protest or tell him not to waste those cute stickers on me. Jessica is sipping her water innocently, watching.

"Well—he surely likes you girls," Lauren comments, swishing her ice around with her straw. My jaw clenches. Here we go.

"He likes Tate," I correct calmly, touching one of my daughter's soft curls as she returns to her coloring book, oblivious. "He's…just being extra nice for her sake," I explain in a low tone, directing a warning glare towards my jealous coworker.

She's getting ready to say something I know can't be pleasant when Edward walks up with a handful of stickers. His grin is bordering on amusement, as if he knows I'm slightly embarrassed over the situation but can't do anything about it. So I have to play along for Tate, because it'll make her happy. She leans over my arm to stare at the stickers, nodding when I choose a cute Dalmatian puppy, pleased. I peel off the backing and slap it onto my left shoulder so she can admire it.

"Thank you very much," I say to Edward nicely, because I always have to set a good example about manners for my kid.

He half-bows, still grinning. "You're welcome, m'lady," he replies, and I see Lauren roll her eyes. Her jealousy is palpable.

"Alright, I'll give you guys a few minutes to think about what you want to eat. I'll be back to take your order," Edward tells us cheerily and we thank him in unison, Tate the loudest; our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before he saunters off.

The only sound we hear for a while is the rapid scribbling of my daughter's crayon. I watch her color, not wanting to start a faux friendly convo with the platinum-haired witch sitting across from me, staring at her blood-red nails. Jess looks so out of place, the poor thing; she's caught in the middle of a six or seven year-long feud. I wouldn't blame her if she took Lauren's side, since they actually remained close after school. Not that this is about taking sides. Lauren might be acting like a high-schooler with her nonexistent attempts to hide her envy at the also nonexistent romance between Edward and I, but we're twenty-two years old. We have homes of our own now, we have jobs, and I have a child. We are adults, for Christ's sake, she should be handling the situation with responsibility and class—meaning, keep your whoring to a minimum around kids, and go find someone else's dick to hop onto. Don't even bother with resenting me. Edward's a goddamn waiter who I've met twice. I don't know anything about him. We've never even talked longer than ten minutes. So please, Lauren, give it up. Him and I are nothing more than strangers—he's just a waiter who hands out cute stickers.

"I have this weird feeling that I've seen him before," Lauren is saying, and my eyes jump to her face. She's leaning on the table, arms crossed, looking over at the other side of the diner. She watches Edward as he serves another table, smiling at a little boy when he gives him a juicy burger. I notice the boy has a sticker too, a lion on the back of his left hand. His guardian, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and wavy brown hair the same color as his, thanks Edward for the food.

Unlike Lauren, I don't stare at Edward's ass while he works. Instead I appreciate his kindness from afar, admiring him for what seems like an exhausting job. Having to talk to a bunch of different people on a daily basis and forcing yourself to be lighthearted and patient with them sends waves of anxiety through my empty stomach. I don't know how waiters do it—at least, not this waiter. I don't know about the others working here. Maybe Edward was just born with a knack for being friendly and pleasant around strangers. I guess you have to be that way in order to last in the restaurant business. People sometimes don't return the warm smile or say thank you in the sincerest of tones. My self-esteem would plummet if this was my job.

"Yeah, me too," Jessica responds to Lauren's comment a bit too brightly, like she doesn't actually agree but wants to be included in the impending discussion of whether or not they've run into him outside of the diner. I get the sense that he's been the object of their faraway approval the few times they've eaten here, but Lauren is only bringing up her recognition in front of me to gauge my reaction. I'm not in the mood so I direct my attention back to my daughter instead of engaging.

What I wouldn't give to be spending my birthday back home in Forks. I'd choose pizza with my sullen stepsister over the most awkward dinner date with Lauren any day. At least Leah hates the entire world and not just me alone, unlike Lauren.

As promised, Edward returns after several tense minutes have passed, notepad in hand, smile still plastered on his face. "Ready to order now?" he asks brightly. _I'm ready to die, actually_ , I think to myself, grabbing my forgotten soda, wanting to speak last. Jess practically jumps out of her skin; she's been so busy watching the silent animosity and Edward's ass to actually look at the damn menu. Funnily enough, she apparently has forgotten what's on it, and fumbles with it and quickly skims through it. Lauren rolls her eyes and does that fluttery thing with her long, dark lashes again when she looks at Edward, requesting a ham sandwich with lettuce and tomato and _extra_ mayonnaise. Her tone practically borders on seductive and I wish I could just toss my drink in her face.

But Edward is gracious, nodding his understanding and jotting down her words. Jess seems to decide on her dinner the exact moment he turns to her. "A—a regular burger, please," she says hurriedly, feigning normalcy but failing. Her round face is the ruddy reddish color of our seats. Dear Lord, she looks like she could use a paper bag. I fear she might faint.

"Okay, and for you two?" Edward turns to Tate and I, probably regretting coming in at all tonight. We've got a lot of odd things going on right now, and I feel bad that he has to deal with someone like Lauren. But of course he's courteous even if she doesn't necessarily deserve it. It occurs to me that either he's used to being ogled at by the subjective eyes of the women who waltz in here or he has no clue whatsoever how painfully attractive he is. Maybe it's both, but he's confused.

"Mac'roni n' _cheeeese_!" Tate yodels unexpectedly, throwing her arms into the air and accidentally letting go of her crayon. It literally lands with a _plop_ in Lauren's glass of water. A moment of collective stunned silence follows. Then she whispers, "Oopsie."

" _Oopsie_ ," Lauren repeats in a hushed sarcastic tone, lifting the crayon from her drink like it's a piece of food Tate tossed instead. Tight-lipped, she hands it back to my daughter, who thankfully looks more surprised than embarrassed. There's an amused yet mortified giggle struggling to escape my throat, but I swallow it down, not wanting to hurt Tate's feelings.

"Mac and cheese for the little lady," Edward confirms smoothly, grinning a bit, but speaking as if that didn't just happen.

"Medium-rare stake with potatoes for me, please," I tell him calmly, not looking, drying off Tate's crayon with my napkin.

"Okay, so," Edward says, "a regular burger for you, a ham sandwich with lettuce, tomato, and extra mayonnaise for you, mac and cheese for you, aaand a medium-rare steak with potatoes for you. Correct?" We nod. "Good. I'll be back soon!"

He's so adorably upbeat and happy. I'm kinda sad when he leaves us again, because now I don't have a distraction from Lauren. And it's gonna be a while until he comes back with our food. I seriously regret accepting Jessica's suggestion of this "girls' night." I know she's hurting about Mike and all, but I don't exactly owe her anything and should have just left it at offering moral support and the best advice I could muster. Putting myself in an uncomfortable situation just because I didn't have the heart to say no is something I need to stop doing, especially now that my child is involved in this crap. If something worse happens tonight and scars her little mind forever, I am never making friends in my entire life ever again.

Luckily Jessica launches a random conversation about upcoming television shows being released this month and neither Lauren nor I have to suffer in silence for very long. Ironically, both of us pretend to be interested in the topic of TV as our bubbly mutual friend chatters on for a good five minutes nonstop. I catch Lauren messing with her hair whenever Edward walks by to serve someone else, and I fidget awkwardly from time to time. Next to me, Tate sings to herself quietly.

Gradually Jessica starts asking our opinions on television and which series we like the most or look forward to seeing. It goes without saying that I don't have a clue—I'm not home enough during the week to watch anything appropriate for _me_ and on my day off Tate and I usually go out and have some fun at the park or an inside jungle gym. So basically I'm not that into TV. I don't even know that many actors or actresses, to be honest. My world consists of being a mom to Tate. I have no time to figure out what I might like these days. Which is fine, of course—Tate is more important. And interesting.

See? This is why the Mommy bloggers wouldn't like me. First I let her sleep in my bed for _no apparent reason_ , I wasn't as upset with her as I should have been when she took off while I was in the bathroom, and now they'd say I'm _too attached_ and need to do things for me sometimes to teach her about independence and being your own person. I suppose they'd have a point, but what's wrong with loving my kid and _wanting_ to be around her as much as I can? Tate's fun. She makes me laugh, smile, and cry all in the same day. I genuinely like the things she likes. Her pony show is adorable and teaches good life lessons. We do each other's hair occasionally (if her putting countless clips and ribbons in mine counts as her doing my hair). We read books and watch Disney movies together when we can. I would think acknowledging what she's absorbed in and encouraging her to continue enjoying those things is okay parenting. At least she's not being put into a box of expectations and forced to act a certain way to please me and the rest of the world. I tell her to be herself, and that it is perfectly alright to be whoever and like whatever she wants. I'd love her even if she hated puppies or went goth on me one day—and I can't say that those things won't happen because I don't get to decide her future for her. Only she does.

Sure, maybe distance will be necessary and healthy _eventually_. But she's four and is away from me too often already so it's truly nobody's place to judge how much time I do or don't spend with her. As long as I'm here—as long as I'm trying.

* * *

I get a glimpse into the daily night of the average twenty-three-year-old woman by watching Jess animatedly discuss TV. I admittedly zone out after a bit, her chipper voice turning into a hyper buzz in the background. I must look quite pathetic and awkward just sitting here coloring with my daughter while my one friend and _her_ best friend talk about some medical show ironically set here in Seattle. I honestly don't think I've ever wanted to go home more than I do in this very moment.

 _Some birthday_ , I laugh to myself, reminiscing on last year when I was surrounded by people I actually like and we went to eat at a place I actually was familiar with. Charlie, Sue, Leah, Seth, Tate, and I all drove down to La Push and hung out at the beach after we ate. Tate splashed fearlessly in the water as the waves pushed against the rocky sand; she'd run from them if they got too big, and shrieked with laughter whenever Seth picked her up and swung her around. The sun set and disappeared behind a cluster of naturally dark clouds, obscuring the pale purple and blue sky behind them. Tate slept in my arms during the drive home, and I cherished every second of it. I continue to feel like I'd been given the greatest gift.

I get so lost in the beauty of my daughter that I don't notice Edward at first. All of a sudden my plate is being passed to me and Tate gasps dramatically when she sees her steaming bowl of mac and cheese. Her dinner looks more appetizing than mine, and she stares at it open-mouthed for several seconds while I put her crayons and coloring book away inside her backpack. I notice she pulled out one of the pony figurines she got for her birthday and has it standing by her drink.

I thank Edward and tell Tate to do the same. Again, she's practically about to launch herself at him in theatrical gratitude.

Unsurprisingly, I could say the same about Lauren and Jessica. Their girly behavior around this guy strongly reminds me of our high school days (before they met their current significant others) when they would fawn over practically any boy.

Dinner is good. Makes me think of Charlie, though, since steak and potatoes are pretty much all he likes to eat. At some point Lauren brings up work and for the first time tonight we can all mutually agree on one thing—that it freaking sucks ninety nine point nine percent of the time—and naturally Jess takes over the subject and tells a crazy random story about what happened during her lunch break last week, exaggerated and probably half a lie. But I listen because I have nothing to contribute to the conversation, entertained by her hand gestures.

For a few minutes, everything is okay. Lauren smiles several times and acts like a normal human being instead of gazing at our busy waiter. Jess keeps chatting away, but entices a laugh from me at one point. Tate giggles when I do even if it doesn't make any sense to her. She finishes her meal first then pushes her bowl away to hurriedly retrieve her art project.

Just as I'm starting to think maybe— _maybe_!—Lauren isn't going to shoot me dirty looks or act inappropriately in front of my daughter anymore, she does something far worse. I should have expected this, really, after their little crayon incident. But nothing could have prepared me for the look of pure shock, horror, and utter devastation that falls upon Tate's sweet face when Lauren deliberately—and I know it's on purpose because I see it happen out of the corner of my eye, too fast for me to react in time—knocks over her half-empty glass of water onto the table. Chips of ice splatter and the beverage spreads directly onto Tate's coloring book, bleeding through the pages and darkening the colors of her cartoon poodle.

She screams; an actual, bloodcurdling, bone-chilling scream that cuts through the noisy diner like a knife. Several things happen all in the same moment: my hands automatically grab her and pull her away from the mess, _DANGER_ written in a bold red font in my brain as it jumps to the possible conclusion that the glass broke; the evil culprit pretends to give two shits by sopping up the water with her napkins, apologizing profusely; Jess, startled by the accident and Tate's shriek of despair, looks around frantically for help, waving her hands and asking what she can do; and finally, our dear waiter runs to us immediately. By the way we both move, it's almost as if we're in sync—he bends down to comfort Tate and I reach for her soaked coloring book, my vision blurred by my own tears. This cannot be happening right now. _This can't be real._

I do what any helpless person would do and shake the book to air it out, gently dabbing at the wet pages with my sleeve and muttering "Oh God, oh God, oh God," under my breath. Tate is bawling behind me, begging me to save her pictures. But the damage is done and irreversible; colors melt together on every affected page. They'll dry but won't be the same.

Aside from her heartbroken crying, there is no sound. People are staring; some have rushed to help clean the table or to see if anyone is hurt. I hold the coloring book in my trembling hands, my face turned into something akin to stone. Fury, hotter than what I imagine hell to feel like, courses through my veins as I shoot daggers at pale-faced Lauren, who feigns pathetic innocence. My jaw clenches painfully and my knuckles throb with a violent desire to throw a punch at said face.

But I reign in my anger. I don't let it show that I want to beat her senseless for intentionally ruining one of my child's most cherished and prized possessions. Because I could get arrested and that is the last thing Tate needs right now.

I take a deep breath and step forward to grab her jacket and backpack, carefully placing the book and box of crayons inside. I zip it up and swing it over my shoulder, biting my lips to suppress a sob, then turn to Edward, holding Tate in his arms, to finally reclaim my daughter. Her tiny face is streaked with tears and redder than I've ever seen it before. She curls into my chest, locking her arms around my neck and breaking down on my shoulder. I clutch her tightly, giving Lauren a final parting look of ferocity and telling her in a remarkably calm voice, "You're paying." And on that note, I turn and walk out.

* * *

It's cold as fuck outside. I fumble with my keys, fingers still shaking, but manage to unlock the car and get Tate in it. I set her in her car seat and buckle her up, then slide over and sit beside her in the middle, pulling the door shut behind me. I let my tears fall, unable to restrain them anymore. Tate sniffles and whimpers dolefully. She stares at her lap sadly.

"I'm sorry, baby," is all I can say. "I promise I'll buy you a new coloring book. We can go pick one out tomorrow if you're up for it. Maybe I can finally get one for me, so we can color together. Does that sound okay?" She nods dully in agreement.

I lean forward to kiss her forehead. I wipe her remaining tears away with my thumb and tap her on the nose, trying to see her smile in the dark. But she doesn't respond and my heart aches. Sighing in defeat, I climb out to get in the front seat, but a tall, approaching figure startles me and makes me jump. Automatically, I leap back and press my body flat against the door to shield my daughter on the other side, my pulse thudding in my throat—but it's only Edward. Oh. Wait, what?

"Hi," he says quietly, and my eyes focus on his shadowed face as they adjust to the dark. "Sorry, um…Are you alright?"

 _A coldhearted, jealous bitch tipped her drink over my kid's coloring book on purpose and now Tate is upset because weeks upon weeks of pages she colored and worked on aren't going to look the same and it's my fault for dragging her along to my "birthday dinner" and for accepting Jessica's offer to go out in the first place._ But I simply mutter, "Yeah, we're good" instead. I can't help but smile at him, touched by his compassion, but it's brief and watery and I want to break down in the street.

"Okay. Just wanted to check and see." He smiles back; he tucks his hands in his jeans pockets shyly, shuffling his feet.

"Thank you, Edward," I whisper, grateful that he can't see the tears falling onto my cheeks. "Not—not just for now, but—but for…um—being a really good waiter. You have been nothing but kind to Tate, and to me…Even after what I did last month—"

I swear he's blushing. And that he playfully rolls his eyes at my last comment. "Oh, shush. Please don't worry about that."

"I try not to," I joke lightly, swiping at my wet face with my hand. "But it's in my nature to give myself anxiety over stupid stuff I say and do. I'm that person who attracts bad luck and embarrassment like I'm a magnet for them or something…"

He nods understandingly. "I get it. But I don't want you to get anxious over it, it's okay. I'm just glad Tate didn't get hurt."

"Me too." We fall silent for a minute, recalling the moment I shouted at the poor guy across the diner and ripped her from his protective hands, believing him to be a freaking kidnapper in broad daylight. "Thank you for doing that, by the way."

He shrugs, grinning again slightly, scratching the back of his neck. He's about to say something else when Tate yells for me, her muffled, sleepy voice demanding to know if we're going home or not. Edward and I stifle a laugh and I reach for the driver's door, yanking it open and bending over to peer at her grumpy face. She squints when the automatic light hits her eyes; she actually looks like she just woke up from a little nap. "Yes, baby, we're gonna go home," I murmur. "Mr. Edward came out to say goodbye. Can you tell him thank you for dinner?" She sits up to see him better, more alert now.

"Thank you for my mac n' cheese and my chocolate milk, Mr. Edward!" she hollers with a wave. "They were really good!"

He appears next to me and waves back. "You're very welcome, sweetheart, I'm glad you enjoyed it," he answers warmly. Lord, I can't take it. He's too much. "Well, I'll see you around, okay? Tell your mama to bring you back." He winks at her.

She giggles sweetly and kicks her short legs in response. It's amazing how a stranger can brighten her mood but not me.

"Get home safe," Edward says to me, stepping back with a tiny nod and kindness in his eyes. "Oh—and happy birthday."

"Pfft." I laugh softly, looking away. "Thanks, man. This'll be a birthday I'll _never_ forget." I take my seat behind the wheel, his amused chuckle a whisper in my ears. I shut the door and lower the window as I start the car. "Thanks again." I smile up at our copper-haired waiter standing at the curb. "Really, thank you. We appreciate your humanity." I make a face and he actually laughs loudly this time, folding his arms and shaking his head; there's a charmed gleam in his green eyes.

He watches me drive away slowly. My heavy heart pangs a little when I turn the corner and he disappears from the mirror.

* * *

I lean against the doorframe to Tate's room, arms crossed, watching her sleep. Baby girl is passed out, sprawled across her tiny mattress like a rag doll. Any trace of sadness or fear is gone from her sweet face; instead her baby-soft features are smooth and cherubic, porcelain with her normal shade of blush in her cheeks instead of burning red from hard crying.

Eventually I have to tear myself away even though it physically pains me to leave her. I close her door but not all the way so I can hear her if she calls for me—which I don't think will happen since she usually sleeps through the night. ( _Usually._ )

Anxiety is creeping up my chest and seeping into my hands, so to keep my fingers and mind busy I decide to do dishes and listen to music. A bomb could go off and Tate wouldn't hear it, so I'm confident she won't even flinch. Still, I put the volume on low and set my phone on the counter in front of me as I quietly scrub plates and glasses, forcing my brain to pay close attention to the words being sung and to memorize them. If I let my thoughts wander, I will just get mad again.

Sooner than I had hoped, there aren't any dishes left to be washed and put away. I glance at the clock on the microwave and groan when I see it's only eight forty-five. Adele belts out a note in the background as I hang my head in exhaustion and stand here in my small kitchen for what seems like hours but is really only a minute or two. Heaving a sigh, I end the song and check my messages, flipping off the light as I head to the back door. Somehow I was blessed with a stunning view from the pint-sized terrace, and I collapse in one of the free but cheap metal chairs. I keep the glass door cracked.

Now that I'm finally getting around to reading all the nice birthday texts from Charlie and company, I realize that although I'm not as psyched to be twenty-two as Taylor Swift suggested and how this birthday in particular took a wrong turn, my family and friends back home have been thinking of me today and it's nice to see their kind words. Half these people I haven't talked to since graduation—the names in my phone are familiar but their faces are sort of a blur. I wonder what it was about me that they liked enough to want to keep in touch or to simply remember my birthday and take time out of their day to wish me a good one. What was I to them that they still care even after all these years? I appreciate it, whatever their reasons.

I thank them all individually, trying to spice up my repetitive answers with a different set of words and emoji's each time, using the cute ones Tate likes. I sigh when I get to Charlie (save the best for last, as they say), staring at his sentimental, fatherly message with a appreciative smile tugging at my lips. Charlie's not the best at expressing his emotions via speech—I know all too well how that feels—but he really stepped it up for me today and says some sweet things. I get choked up.

Rather than say thank you through text, I ask him if he's there and available to talk. It's a relief to finally get this chance.

 **Hey B,** he types a few seconds later. **Yeah, I'm here :)** Poor dude hasn't figured out emoji's yet. Or an iPhone in general.

I call him first. As it rings, I untie my shoelaces and kick off my sneakers, and then pull my legs up beneath me. The line clicks and just like we always do, my dad and I say hello at the exact same time. I genuinely laugh for once—how funny.

"Hey, Dad," I snicker, tugging at my shirt sleeve absentmindedly. "Geez, why do we do that every time one of us calls?"

He's chuckling, too. "I dunno. Great minds think alike, I suppose? Or maybe it's just because we're father and daughter."

He sounds sleepy, but the good kind of sleepy, the kind you get after you've had a long but satisfying day. Hearing his rumbly voice and sense of humor in my ear takes me home to our cozy house in dreary Forks…this is what I needed today.

I ask him how his day went before he can ask about mine. I wonder how much I should leave out and what I should keep in—Tate's unexpected birthday decorations she made for me will certainly be included, but everything else? I don't know what Charlie would say if I told him pretty little Lauren Mallory turned out to be a vindictive bitch—more so than ever. It'd be a relief to tell someone how I feel about what happened tonight but I don't have the heart to upset Charlie. Tate is like a mini version of me, and even though he loves her as a granddaughter, I do think he gets a second chance to be a dad—the dad I rarely saw while growing up in Arizona, the dad I only visited during summers or every other holiday. My girl's his girl now too, and he wants to prove to himself that he actually can be a worthy, present father figure in both our lives.

I listen to him talk for a while, inquiring about Sue and the kids, wondering how they've been. I keep him chatting enough that maybe he'll get tired of talking and go to bed so I won't have to discuss my awkward evening with Lauren. Or at the very least, we can talk about our uncertain holiday plans and how I may or may not actually be able to go home as soon as shit starts getting real at work. God, I seriously hope I won't be breaking my promise to Tate. I shudder at the thought.

"But enough about me," Charlie eventually sighs, bringing me out of my trance. My stomach churns. Well, shit. So much for that plan. "How was your birthday? Did you do anything special?" He almost sounds hopeful. Way to be subtle, Dad.

I laugh sarcastically. "Ah. No." I bite my lip, wrinkling my nose in distaste. I'm not really lying now though—an uncomfortable dinner with Jessica and Lauren isn't considered special or fun in my mind. "Uh, it was good. Me and Tate went out to eat." That's not a lie, either. More of a half-truth. "She's so sweet, she made me these gorgeous decorations and hung them up, all by herself, in the living room." I look over my shoulder to admire her work through the glass. "She's a really talented artist. I'll take pictures so you can see, because they're so cute. I wasn't expecting it at all."

"I'm not surprised she's good," Charlie says warmly, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "You used to love art as a kid. You got it from your mom, I think, and now Tate gets it from you." We fall silent for a minute at the mention of Renée. A tightness builds in my chest, squeezing my heart. Tears prick at my eyes. The wound of losing her still feels fresh, open.

"Yeah," I reply, straining to remain upbeat. "I'll have to buy Tate a new coloring book. I, um, accidentally tipped my water over at dinner and it soaked the one she's been using all summer." Again, another half-truth. "I feel like crap." _That's_ true.

"Oh no," Charlie groans. I hear him clap a hand to his forehead. Same. "Bells, you clumsy kid. Always knockin' shit over."

"Gee, way to make me feel worse. Thanks so much." But I laugh, because it's true, even if I didn't actually do it this time.

A different kind of quiet settles between us, both thinking about all the countless times I've been a bull in a china shop. I really am my father's daughter since I certainly don't get my balance problems from my mother. Charlie understands me.

"I miss you," I wind up mumbling, throat swollen. Because it's hitting me like a goddamn train all of a sudden, the silence growing too loud for me to stand. Usually we have these types of conversations in person. I'd come home from work to my daughter, my dad, and later Sue and her kids if they were there on those days. Tate would run to greet me and thrust her artwork in my face for me to see. When she went to bed, Charlie and I sat at the kitchen table or the back porch, and we talked about our day and what we wanted to do tomorrow. I hate myself for fucking up that routine, for uprooting my child and bringing her to Seattle. It was like a spur of the moment decision, something my own mother would have done. I got excited too fast and just like her, I make bad choices when I'm excited. And now my choices affect the ones I love.

"I miss you too, baby," Charlie whispers and the faint tremor in his words causes tears to flood my vision again. "But we have the holidays to look forward to, right? I know you've been real busy lately with work. But we'll see each other soon."

 _I have two and a half months to be anxious about my schedule and then throw a fit of despair when it turns out I'm right. I'll be forced to work during Thanksgiving, and probably up until late on Christmas Eve, which by then it will be too late to drive three hours back to Forks. I could shower Tate with gifts but she'd never forgive me for doing that to her. It would break her to be told we aren't going home for the holidays like she thought. And you wouldn't be happy with me either._ "Oh, yeah, I—I know," I respond dully with a sniff, using my sleeve as a tissue for the second time tonight. My own words scream "liar."

"It's not like you joined the army or moved to the other side of the country," Charlie continues reassuringly. "You're just a few hours away." I get the sense he's trying to comfort both of us. He heaves a sigh. "Sometimes life takes us on paths we didn't think existed, or didn't think we'd travel down. We wind up in new places, meet new people, try new things. Life never goes the way we plan it, Bells. But take advantage of the good things you're given, and don't be afraid to do stuff you're scared of. I dunno what those things might be, I'm not you, but…What I'm trying to say is, being away from home, as hard as it might be for you and Tate—you wound up in Seattle for a reason. If you haven't already, you'll find out why and things'll start to make sense. But if time passes and you still don't know, you come home. You'll find yourself here."

I smile, touched by his unexpected advice. "Good to know. I needed that. Thanks, Dad." I underestimate him sometimes.

"You're welcome." Perplexed by my genuine praise, clearly he doesn't think he made much sense, but I take his words to heart. I tuck them away inside to comfort myself later as I'm tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep due to worrying.

"Uhm…Hey, I think I'm gonna go get me and Tate ready for bed. We've had a long day, and I can't keep my eyes open."

"All righty. Same here. Thanks for calling me, it's always nice talking to you. Tell baby girl I said hi. Happy birthday, Bella."

Rolling my eyes, I bend over to pick up my shoes and I rise from the hard chair. "Haha. Thank you. And I will. I love you."

"Love you too, honey. Goodnight." He hangs up first, the line clicking quietly in my ear. I slide my phone in my pocket. I go back inside, suddenly becoming very aware of how freaking cold it is, shivering as I pull the door shut and lock it up.

I stop and admire my daughter's drawings for a bit, kneeling on the couch to inspect the details. This is the sweetest and best gift I never could have anticipated, a true reflection of who Tate is as a person: kind, generous, thoughtful, and loving. I don't know what I did to deserve such a great kid. And any day with Tate is a day never left unremembered or uncherished.

Today especially. As I resituate her tiny sleeping body to make room for myself beside her, I bitterly think of Lauren and how she hates me enough to hurt my child the way she did. The wicked witch should be grateful tomorrow's my day off.

I stare at Tate, unable to take my eyes off her. When I do gradually drift off, I think of her drawings. Mom would be proud.

* * *

 _The end!_

 _Nah just kidding. We're barely getting started._

 _Congratulations if you made it to the end without getting bored and/or tired of the length! I ended up with more words than I thought. Whoops._

 _Again, I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this done :( I won't give a deadline for chapter 3 so it'll get here when it gets here. Dunno when that is but I'll write it eventually! There'll be more Bella/Edward interaction soon so stay tuned for that. I need to work on another fic for a bit so I'll probably take a teeny tiny break from this until I get some of that done. Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Give this a favorite/follow if you did, and leave a happy friendly review (I could use some positive feedback)!_

 _Thank you for reading, loves! Catch ya on the flip side._

 _\- Cherry_

 _(Happy birthday, dinosaur.)_


	4. Chapter 3: Remember Me

_Hello people of the internet, welcome back to my little story._

 _Took me forever to finish chapter three but it's finally here, two months later! Yikes. Sorry about that. But_ _I love this one so much and hopefully you do too!_

 _Disclaimer - I don't own Twilight but this story idea as well as Tate belong to me._

* * *

 **CHAPTER THREE: Remember Me**

 _Bella_

 _September 13, 2004_

I woke up to the smell of bacon sizzling. It wouldn't have been alarming if I didn't know how terrible of a cook my mother was, and my eyes snapped open as my sleepy mind jumped to conclusions. What if she burned the entire house down?

I tossed back my thick lavender duvet and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, shoving my numb feet into my pair of fuzzy Elmo slippers. I stumbled out of my room, following the meaty scent wafting through the house. The bright Arizona sun streaming into the kitchen from all the open windows blinded me momentarily.

"Good morning!" my mom sang cheerfully when my vision adjusted and I could see again. Confused now, I looked for a fire but neither saw or smelled one. There was only Renée, standing at the stove in her pale blue sundress, her green and yellow gingham apron tied around her skinny waist. She glanced up from the pan to beam at me, outshining the sunlight, and for a moment all I could do was stare at her petite, unharmed frame, bewildered. Then I raised an uncertain eyebrow.

"Oh, don't give me that look," she grumbled, rolling her big blue eyes dramatically. "I can cook without ruining anything." Very rarely. Even making mac and cheese proved to be a challenge for her, so how could I trust that _bacon_ wouldn't be?

"Do you need help?" My raspy voice was still thick with sleep, and I yawned as I shuffled over to give her a hug, burying my face in the hollow beneath her shoulder. I breathed her in, inhaling the sweet perfume that clung to her dress and skin. My mother always had an appealing aroma about her, and I can't think of a time where she ever smelled bad or gross.

Mom laughed quietly, a chiming sound, and caressed the back of my head with her free hand, planting a kiss to my hair.

It wasn't until I remembered the date that I became worried again. I pulled away, startled by the realization, and exclaimed "Oh!" before giving Renée a wide-eyed look of disbelief. "It's Monday!" I continued incredulously. "I have school today!"

But she was shaking her head. "Nope," is all she said, lifting the pan from the stove and sliding the crisp, sizzling bacon strips onto a yellow plate. "I called your teacher to let her know you came down with a stomach bug over the weekend so you're still in bed recovering." As she spoke, she dumped the pan in the sink and brought the plate of bacon over to the round, bright green kitchen table, where she had painstakingly laid out place settings for the both of us. "So no school."

She seemed so proud of herself in the way she smiled at me then, popping open the microwave to get a heated bowl of scrambled eggs, placing it on the table beside the bacon. (I guess that was her way of keeping them warm until she was done with the bacon.) I simply stood in the middle of the room, unable to speak.

"Um," I managed to blurt out, "you—you lied to my teacher?" My brow furrowed and a frown tugged at my lips. What the heck did she think she was doing? I had literally just started fifth grade only three weeks before and so far had a perfect attendance record; I really didn't want to tarnish that, even if Ms. Hudson believed I was sick—which I sort of doubted. It appeared too good to be true, that I were to "get a stomach bug" right before my birthday. If Ms. Hudson was the smart and attentive woman I thought she was, it wouldn't take long for her to figure it out. Dread hit me in the pit of my stomach.

Mom didn't answer my question. She pressed her lips together and suddenly became very intent on fixing our silverware to avoid meeting my disapproving gaze. A tense silence settled between us; the kind of silence we were too familiar with since this type of thing happened periodically. It was a pattern that kept weaving itself together, always growing.

I walked up behind her and said, low and critically, "Mom, you can't just pull me out of school to celebrate my birthday."

She nearly knocked over the empty glass sitting at my place. She repositioned it and I saw the blush creeping up her neck and into her freckled cheeks. Her jaw clenched. "I know, Bella," she whispered, sounding guilty and childlike.

"Then why did you?" My tone bordered on angry now, as years of pent-up frustration at her irresponsible choices started to boil. I didn't want to be upset with her—on any day let alone my birthday—but this was going too far. She knew that it was unethical and dishonest to keep me from school for no reason except to make my birthday special, and as much as I appreciated her desire to be with me, I couldn't condone her actions. You just don't ever do things like that.

"Please, Bella, let's just—let's be happy today," my mother begged me, finally turning to face me, cupping my jaw in her smooth, gentle hands. Her baby blue eyes were pleading, wet with tears. "It's your birthday. Let's not think about school, or anything else. Today's your day." It sounded like she was trying to convince herself that what she did wasn't that bad.

She scurried away to retrieve a carton of orange juice from the fridge. Stiff with outrage, I couldn't say any more. I didn't think arguing would make her change—not just her mind, but her entire irresponsible self—but I wanted to try and explain why continuously making rash decisions for herself (because, ultimately, this was about her and what she wanted) would eventually get her into trouble. Imagine that, a twelve-year-old attempting to teach her mother about _thinking_ before _doing_ —although it wasn't surprising we had reached that place when pulling me from school on my birthday was the last straw.

"C'mon, let's eat before the eggs get cold," Mom chirped, pouring our drinks and then taking her seat. My hands, aching from being curled into fists for so long, twitched at my sides in resentment. That was my mother for you; always trying to change the subject.

I sank into my chair, biting my cheek to keep from snapping. Along with exasperated, I also felt conflicted; she'd gotten up early to tidy the house and set the table flawlessly and actually make breakfast without any accidents, for me, for my birthday. She did all this to surprise me, to start my morning off with a kind gesture—she was trying to be a good mom.

But you can be a good mom and not sabotage your child's daily education or set them up to be uncomfortable in class. There was no doubt my teacher would confront me sometime tomorrow, and I'd get stuck between a rock and a hard place.

 _How do I explain to Ms. Hudson that you lied to her about my health just so you could spend my birthday with me? She will blame me for it and think I faked being sick to get out of going to school on said birthday. This isn't going to go over well. It wouldn't make sense for the_ parent _to lie, parents don't do that._ Not unless you were _my_ mother, of course. I was screwed.

Needless to say, breakfast didn't turn out as carefree as Mom had planned. It was downright awkward. I glared when she wasn't paying attention and stabbed at my eggs to show her how mad I was. The silence hung above us, thick and loud.

She finished first, gathering her plate and utensils and glass and carrying them over to the sink. My heart beat fast like a bird trapped within my ribcage, panicking as it struggled to escape. That's kind of how I felt—confined in a life of having to be the responsible one, to apologize for my mother's mistakes, to handle things children my age shouldn't have to. A never-ending cycle of being the grownup while standing next to the woman who had birthed me. I basically raised myself if I'm being honest—she was like the slightly annoying, ditzy sidekick and I was the protagonist in our own cartoon show.

"Thanks for breakfast," I muttered, setting my dishes in the sink as she scrubbed hers. "I'm going back to bed." As mad as I was, I couldn't bear to see the pained look of sadness that surely crossed her delicate features when I walked away.

* * *

She found me curled up under my covers an hour later. I heard the creak of my door and hurried to flip my pillow over—I didn't want to her to see the stain of tears and know I'd been crying. I acted like I was half-asleep and trying to get cozy again. She padded across the floor and crawled warily onto my mattress, quietly making herself comfortable behind me.

"Sorry," she murmured softly, resting her hand on my stiff shoulder. I closed my eyes and tried not to move an inch. "I'm so sorry, Bella, really. I didn't mean to upset you, I just…wanted to surprise you. It's your birthday so I figured you would want to stay home instead of going to school." Of course I did, any kid would. It's the fact that she called and lied to my teacher and told her I was sick that made it a problem. Why couldn't we have celebrated when I got home like we always did? What was it about my twelfth birthday that she had to go and do what she did? Why was she so _impulsive_?

"I've got presents for you," Mom carried on, optimism seeping into her voice. "I mean, not many, I know you don't like to be spoiled, but…I can go get them if you wanna open 'em. I figured we'd wait until later after we had cake and ice cream but it—it's your choice." I couldn't even bring myself to respond to that. I wanted nothing from her except some maturity.

When I didn't answer, Mom sighed and slowly got off my bed. She knew I was awake and giving her the silent treatment. She left my door open just a crack, something she'd done since I was a baby. I listened to her light footfalls as she left.

* * *

Hours later, I still hadn't emerged from my room. Mom peeked in to check on me from time to time but I never moved—I simply kept burrowing deeper beneath the bedspread, falling in and out of consciousness. Eventually I dozed off; being sad and disappointed in a loved one really takes its toll on you. I woke up around four and by then I couldn't stay in bed any longer. Groaning, my joints popped as I unwillingly exited my room. I stepped on something smooth; eyes widening in surprise, I looked down and saw a piece of paper on the floor under my foot. Confused, I bent over to pick it up.

 **Bella,** my mother had written in bold blue pen, **your dad called while you were sleeping so I told him you'd return the call when you woke up. I'm going to take a nap myself so just wake me up if you need anything. I love you, Bunny.**

Despite my animosity towards her at that moment, the lifelong nickname brought a wistful smile to my lips. Tears pooled in my eyes and my chest suddenly felt tight. I sucked in a breath and kept walking, folding up the note and taking it with me. The house was quiet; she actually was asleep, then. I'd look for her after I was done talking to my dad. I plucked the home phone off its base unit and went back to my room, kicking the door shut behind me and putting my mother's note on top of my dresser. I dialed my dad's number and flopped onto my bed; I heaved a sigh and rubbed my sleepy eyes.

He answered, warily, after several rings. The line crackled, then his rumbly voice spoke into the phone. "Swan residence."

"Hey, Ch—Dad." I wasn't allowed to call him Charlie to his face. Or whenever I spoke to him. "It's Bella," I sighed wearily.

I could almost picture the smile lighting his face at the sound of my voice, as monotone as it was. "Bells!" he exclaimed, too cheerily for my liking. Even on a good day, I was never a ray of a sunshine like my mother. "Happy birthday, kiddo."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "Thanks, Dad," I mumbled, absentmindedly snapping the elastic of my pajama bottoms.

"How've you been celebrating? Did your friends at school remember to wish you a happy birthday?" _I don't have friends._

I had to think fast—obviously Mom didn't tell him I wasn't at school since she lied to keep me from going, and I couldn't either. As much as I didn't approve of that, I wasn't exactly prepared to be shipped off to Forks after Charlie discovered the mother of his child was doing a half-assed job at raising their twelve-year-old. If I informed him she kept me from my education for the sake of my birthday, he'd get concerned and sooner or later CPS would arrive and take me away when he filed a neglect complaint. Well, that seemed a bit far-fetched for Charlie, but he'd certainly be worried about me. Mom did a lot of irresponsible, flighty things and I had to be here to take care of her. So now I was being forced to lie to him. A kind of domino effect, one thing lead to another.

"Yeah, they did," I replied, fighting back tears of guilt. "Um, we haven't really celebrated yet, since I've been taking a nap and all, but—but I think we might go out to dinner later. And then I'll open presents before bed." I sounded so lackluster.

Charlie noticed. "You don't seem too excited about any of that," he remarked. There was the concern. "What's up, Bell?"

I struggled to keep the truth hidden under my tongue. "Huh? Oh, nothing. I'm fine. I just woke up. I'm still tired."

"Hm. Okay." He didn't believe me, and I could tell. Panic bloomed in my stomach and my resolve shook. _What do I say?_

"Enough about me," I blurted before he had the chance to say anything more on the subject. "What've you been doing?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Work and solitaire, work and solitaire. Had a beer. Took a five-minute nap. So, nothing much." He chuckled, pleased with himself. I smiled at his dry humor, an aspect of him I'd inherited. At least his day was going all right.

"I wish I could be there with you," I heard myself murmur wistfully, and my face twisted in regret a second later. Whoops.

"Me too, honey," Charlie said sadly, longingly. The tears assaulted my eyes again. "Maybe next year, if—if you want, you can come up here to Forks and celebrate your birthday with me then. Your mom can come, too," he added. Oh God, no.

I cringed, the moment ruined. "Aha. Yeah, maybe." Yeah, maybe not. "Orrr, you could come here. To Phoenix," I teased.

"Oh." I envisioned him shuddering at the equally awkward suggestion. "Ah, yeah, perhaps. I would have to make room in my _very busy schedule_ to fly down for a few days, though. Dunno how I'd manage that since this town needs their king," he joked.

I laughed then, loud and genuine; I had to cover my mouth so I wouldn't disturb my mom, wherever she was. Charlie was a king, truly, and still is. The people of Forks—at the time, all three thousand, two hundred and six of them—need him and respect him like he actually is royalty. And like any father to a little girl, he was my first love and my first prince.

"Good point," I giggled. "I don't think anybody would be able to survive two minutes without you there." _I know I haven't._

"Eh, they'd figure it out," my dad chuckled, sounding pleased that he made me laugh. It was a rare occurrence back then.

The moment of amusement was only fleeting. I quickly settled back into wistful quietness as I thought about how much I truly missed being with Charlie. Summer dragged on in rainy Forks but now I was missing it more than ever, as well as the delighted look on his face when I came down the stairs every morning to have breakfast with him. We'd plan our day over cereal or eggs and bacon (I would make the eggs and bacon, sometimes pancakes, because he was a worse cook than my mother), or I'd tag along with him in his police cruiser and hang out at the station all day. I made friends with the other officers—since I've always gotten along better with the older crowd—and would play those old-fashioned Windows games on someone's computer. So as depressing as Forks could be a good percent of the time (at least to a kid), trips up there during the summer weren't as bad as I grew up—I realized the time I got to spend with my dad was a yearly gift.

Forks wasn't so bad as long as Charlie would always be there waiting for me. It occurred to me then I didn't feel at all the same about my mother; my final days in Forks that year had been filled with dread that I struggled to fight off, unsettled by how differently I felt leaving this time. I suppose going back to Phoenix to be the parent to a nearly thirty-one-year-old woman suddenly didn't sound as normal and acceptable as I'd originally thought. I wanted to stay in Forks and be okay. I didn't want to go home and have to take care of someone anymore, the way she should have always taken care of me.

"Dad?" I croaked, throat swollen and tears escaping the corners of my burning eyes. "Forks will always be home, right?"

He seemed taken aback by my abrupt change in mood. He was silent for a second, then said, gruff with emotion, "Yeah, baby, Forks'll always be here for you." I was truly asking about him and if _he'd_ always be my home—I needed a real one, a stable place to return to.

I didn't want to be the grownup anymore. Even if it was too late to salvage a proper childhood, I still desired to be a kid.

"Good," I sniffled. "Y'know, I used to think it was weird having two homes. But now I don't mind it so much. Seeing you, every summer in Forks, it—it gives me something to look forward to. It can get boring around here in Phoenix, but Forks always seems to have stuff to do, places to go, people to meet. It's actually not that bad once you get used to the rain."

Charlie laughed then, and the vigorous sound filled me with warmth. "I can't argue with that. I've lived here my whole life."

 _And I've lived there a good portion of mine_ , I thought pensively. Forks really was my other home; maybe my one and only.

We talked about random things for a while longer. I wound up laughing again, forgetting Mom and our current situation. I had sore ribs by the time I glanced at the clock and noticed how dark my room had gotten. I sighed glumly, knowing my mom might be awake by now and that we'd inevitably have to talk about why exactly my birthday was so monotonous. I have never been one for confrontation of any sort so as much as I hated the thought of seeing my mom again, I had to.

"Hey, Dad, um…" I scratched my ear, loneliness already beginning to creep into my chest. "I'm gonna go check on Mom and, um…get some homework done." _But I don't_ have _homework at the moment because she kept me from school today._

"Oh, alright," Charlie responded curtly, exaggerating his disappointment. But he laughed and said kindly, "Okay, kiddo."

"Thanks for talking to me," I murmured, absentmindedly tracing a line in my bedspread. "I had fun—I like talking to you."

There was another smile in his voice when he replied, "Me too, Bells. We can talk anytime, you know. I'm…here for you."

It's almost sad how he was basically my only other "friend" at the time. I was too awkward and shy to approach anybody at school and spent most of my days alone. I didn't mind, though, I enjoyed being by myself. I felt out of step with kids my age and always had a hard time finding someone who I connected with. Eventually I realized that wasn't happening—I'd just be _one of those people_ for the rest of my life, it seemed. Which scared me since I didn't want to be totally alone. I hoped to marry and have kids and a dog someday. Live in a nice house with a family I would love with all my heart. So it was difficult for me when I had those moments of panic, wondering if my inability to socialize would prevent any of that.

I cleared my swollen throat and blinked back tears. "I know. Thank you, Dad. And I don't say this enough, but…I love you."

"I love you too, Bells." He seemed slightly surprised I was being so sentimental, especially towards him. We're so similar that sometimes it felt weird to say _I love you_ without it being uncomfortable, even if we meant it with everything we had. "I'll let you go now," Charlie said with a sigh after a short pause. "Again—happy birthday. That's the last time I'll say it."

I playfully rolled my eyes. "Until next year," I giggled, not knowing I wouldn't want to hear it come next year, not knowing I wouldn't want to hear anything about my birthday come next year. How I began loathing the day and totally dreading it.

We said goodbye and I ended the call, my thumb hesitating over the button for half a second. There went my lifeline, my only source of positivity on this awful day I no longer wanted to celebrate.

I cracked my stiff joints and neck, wincing as I noticed the dull beginning of a headache behind my eyes. I let my body lie still for a moment, but eventually had to get up like I said I would. Golden rays of light slanted off the walls and the floor, the orangey beginning of the sunset visible through the kitchen windows as I passed. I reached my mother's bedroom at the end of the hall and stood there forever.

My hand twitched at my side, knowing it should knock but couldn't. I really didn't want to talk to her. I didn't want to look at her childlike face, see those sad baby blues fill with remorse. I didn't want to do the comforting anymore. Not one bit.

It angered me that I had to, that it was basically _my_ responsibility to fix the problem. To patch up and heal the wounds—wounds that shouldn't be there, scrapes and bruises that hurt to touch, gashes that would inevitably fade into scars. And it scared me, then, realizing she'd never change, that this was just another repetitive injury. I started to wonder how many scars were already on me and if my mother would ever notice them. No, of course not. Renée liked to ignore bad things.

I rapped on the door sharply and waited. I heard the shift of her body in the sheets, a fleeting second of confused quiet, and then, "Bella?" Her voice was sleepy-soft and disoriented. I wished she hadn't woken up. "Oh, you can come in, hon."

I reigned in my fury, taking a deep breath to relax the tension that was building in my body, and stepped into her room. I found Renée curled up alone in her queen-sized bed, lying on her side with her legs tucked beneath her small figure. She was rubbing her eyes, yawning. I stood at the foot of the bed, waiting for her to say something. I was too mad to speak.

She gazed at me wearily for a long time. Then she raised a pale hand and gestured for me to come over to her. Like she had done earlier, I unwillingly crawled my way across the mattress, collapsing next to her on my back. She turned toward me, throwing her arm over my chest and hugging my shoulder. She pecked my cheek and snuggled against me. Again, I noted the childlike behavior, and gritted my teeth. But, as usual, I didn't have the heart to disrupt the moment with reality.

Ultimately I couldn't enable her any longer. "I just got off the phone with Charlie," I informed her quietly, closing my eyes.

"That's nice…What did you guys talk about?" she murmured groggily, sounding like she was ready to fall back to sleep.

I shrugged. "Lotsa stuff…I told him I miss Forks." I paused, gauging her reaction. But she didn't so much as flinch at the confession. "Maybe we can spend my next birthday there. I'll be thirteen," I mused. _That_ certainly got her attention.

She fidgeted uncomfortably at the reminder. "Don't say that," she mumbled. "I don't want my baby to grow up. Stay tiny forever." Translation: stay young and live with me and take care of me forever. She sighed a moment later, propping her torso up on her elbow. She looked at me through the pale waning light from her window. "I hope you don't grow up to be like me."

Startled by her words, my eyes flipped open and I stared back at her incredulously. Then my expression instantly soured and my veins grew too hot as my anger set aflame once more. I bolted upright, my jaw dropping. "Yeah, I hope so, too."

She flinched, taken aback. There was a fleeting few seconds of confused silence on her part, heavy breathing on mine. I wanted her to get mad at me, simply because I was sick and tired of her regular disposition. I wanted her to treat me like I was the child she needed to discipline rather than it being the other way around. She had to finally grow up. I was done.

"I hope growing up with a woman who depends on me for almost everything doesn't somehow damage me in any way," I continued ruthlessly. "I hope being the parent— _your_ parent—all these years doesn't affect my future when I'm _actually_ an adult instead of pretending to be one to keep _your_ head above water. I hope feeling isolated from my peers because my mother's erratic, immature behavior and choices keeps me on my toes amounts to something one day and never feeling like I had a childhood doesn't completely screw me up. I hope you're happy living your silly little carefree life as a stupid excuse for an adult while your twelve-year-old daughter has basically raised herself since she was old enough to count."

Renée was horrified. Honestly, I was too, but it had to be said. I've always been good at hiding my emotions and putting on a brave face. So she had to know I meant it, and was seriously hurting because of her. I never screamed at anybody.

We stared at other, petrified, for what felt like many hours. Eventually I was the first to move; I dropped my head into my hands and began to sob. I let the mental barrier crumble and the waterworks started flooding relentlessly. One too many years of neglect and her bad decisions and being alone were finally taking their visible toll on me, and for once I did not want to hide my tears and pretend to be okay for her sake. I couldn't do that now; there was no going back at this point.

"Why do you have to be you?" I wept hysterically, shoulders heaving. "Why can't you be like other moms? How did I get stuck with you? You're not even a mom, you're just a child trapped in a grown woman's body!" My voice was venomous as a snake's fatal bite, my harsh words cutting through the air like sharp knives; the truth really does hurt. It hurt us both.

"I don't know what to say, Bella," my mother whispered weakly several minutes later when the dust settled. I wept harder.

"I can't be the adult anymore," I bawled into the sheets, for I had toppled over. "I just wanna be a kid. I'm so sick of this."

I felt her trembling hands touch the back of my head hesitantly, smoothing down my tangled hair. For a second it felt as if we were in a Disney Channel movie where the young girl just had her heart broken by her crush at school and her mom was trying to comfort her. I almost wished that _was_ the situation—that would mean we could at least relate to each other.

But no, my life, even then, was not a movie, let alone from Disney Channel. I couldn't predict a happy ending here. I had just fully realized how irresponsible my mother was a good percent of the time—if it wasn't easy, it became my job to do it. If it wasn't fun, I still did it anyway. There was no compromise. The older I got, the less she bothered to be an adult. A movie like that would depress anyone who saw it unless, somehow, some way, my "happy ending" magically happened.

I stopped believing in happy endings that day. I accepted that if I couldn't hope for it, it wouldn't occur. No use in trying.

I needed to cry and get my anger out. Truthfully, I did feel better when I managed to stop sobbing. Renée had laid down next to me and I could see tear tracks on her own cheeks. Suddenly she looked ten years older. How I wanted her to be.

"How can I fix this?" she murmured. Of course she sounded like a child afraid of discipline. "How can I…make it better?"

I dragged my hands across my wet face. "Well, for starters, don't pull me out of school on my birthday ever again." She grimaced at the reminder. I sighed. "In all seriousness, I don't really know. I'd tell you to get your act together. Get a new job and start paying bills on your own. Focus less on all the fun you could be having instead and just be an adult. I can't be the grownup anymore, Mom. That always should've been your job. I'm done with parenting _you_ —I have to be the kid now."

Mom gazed at me with those heartbreaking puppy dog eyes, swimming in tears. "Okay," she said after a while. "I get it."

"Do you?" I mumbled suspiciously, but she nodded and grabbed my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "Okay," I repeated.

* * *

We didn't talk about the future for the rest of the night. Renée tried to lighten the mood by bringing out my presents; she got an impish look on her face and snuck off into her closet, returning a few seconds later with an armful of gifts. She'd wrapped them each with different paper but all had a big curly bow slapped right in the middle. I laughed into my hands; always with the theatrics. She laid them out individually beside me and straightened the tissue paper in the singular bag.

"Mom," I groaned, "this is too much." My cheeks were turning pink with embarrassed gratitude but on the inside my heart was bursting. My fingers trailed over the satiny boxes and I wondered what was in them, unable to recall what I'd wanted.

"Which one do I open first?" My eyes were on the little purple bag but I had a sense she wanted to save the best for last.

"You pick, sweetheart," Mom whispered eagerly. Naturally, she was willing to give me anything after what just happened.

I chose the tiniest box and carefully tore off the blue paper. At first it appeared to be a miniature vintage book, but upon further inspection I gathered it wasn't a book at all, but a gift card holder—I opened the lid to reveal a card for Old Navy.

"I remember you saying you wanted some new shirts," Mom explained shyly. "I wasn't sure what exactly you had in mind so I figured I'd just let you pick 'em out. Is that okay?" She bit her lip expectantly and I bobbed my head. She smiled. "It isn't much, but it's enough to buy a few. We can go shopping tomorrow after I pick you up from school. If you want to."

"Yeah, totally. Thank you!" I was touched that she recalled my desire to get clothes—I thought she hadn't been listening.

My next gift was in a medium-sized box that contained a silver picture frame with a photo already in it. Tears immediately smarted at my eyes and I was taken completely by surprise. A photograph of me and my dad from my most recent visit to Forks was nestled in the square frame, smiling at the camera held by Charlie's friend, Harry Clearwater, who had tagged along on our annual fishing trip. We actually managed to not look awkward for once—instead we were happy and beaming.

I smiled in a bittersweet way, memories of that day swimming around in my head. That was the second to last day on my stay with Charlie and I remember clearly wanting it to stretch out for as long as it possibly could. Delaying the inevitable, so to speak.

"Charlie sent that to me. The picture." Mom fussed with her hair and let it fall over one shoulder, perpetually uncomfortable with mentioning him to me.

"I really appreciate this," I said quietly, blinking my tears away. "Truly, I do. I can't wait to hang it up. Maybe over my bed or something." I traced the shape of the frame with my fingertip, trying to swallow around the lump in my throat. It meant so much to me that Mom actually contacted my father for something other than to find out when I was going to see him.

I gently placed the frame next to me with the gift card, then reached for the last and biggest box. Renée seemed to love this one the most; she squealed and clapped her hands like an overexcited two-year-old. I bit back my natural inclination to find that annoying and instead focused on unwrapping the damn thing. The paper crinkled under my fingers and it felt like something special was inside the box. I lifted the top off to reveal a neatly folded blanket and I gasped, stunned.

"What is this?" I breathed, pulling it out to study the various colorful designs neatly stitched together in perfect squares. I recognized several of the prints, and after I felt the material I finally realized the quilt was made from t-shirts—her shirts.

"These are from your shirts," I exclaimed in surprise. "The ones you used to get when you went on road trips. Holy crow!"

Mom was beaming. "Yes!" she laughed. "Yes. I thought the next time you went up to Forks with your dad, you could use something extra to keep you warm. And, y'know, if—if you wanted a piece of me with you." She averted her damp eyes.

Poignant sadness bloomed in my chest and crawled up my neck. Blinded by her typically flighty and immature behavior, I always assumed she was glad to be rid of me, just a little bit, during the time I was away in Forks, so she could run off and wreak more havoc, make more messes for me to clean up. I thought she didn't care not having me remind her to do this or that. It never occurred to me that maybe she missed me more than I believed, more than she ever let herself show.

"I love it," I murmured, holding the quilt up to my face and breathing in the familiar scent of her that still clung to it. "I will definitely be using this. Not just at Charlie's but here, too. I'm sleeping with it tonight. Thank you." We exchanged smiles.

We sat in silence for a while. I admired the quilt and thought about how much time it must have taken for her to make it. I liked the softness and how it felt to the touch. It reminded me of the baby blankets I still had in a drawer somewhere. My throat got tight again and I started to feel guilty for being so downright vicious earlier; it amazed me how calm I was now.

"Okay. Last one." Mom reached for the bag and handed it to me. I gave her a curious look—it was heavy. She shrugged innocently and gestured for me to continue. I pressed my lips together and slowly began taking out the tissue paper. My eyebrows raised and I made a small animated sound, taken aback by the sight of the book. It was a real book this time; _Lord of the Rings_ , to be exact. I'd complained about my school's library never having it when I wanted to read it; that was way back in May, though, and I forgot about it when I went to Forks. Mom had clearly searched for this specific version; it was in mint condition but the hard cover appeared to be dated, an older style from many years ago. It was gorgeous.

"I found it in an antique store last week while you were at school," Mom told me softly. "I hunted around for a while but it didn't look like this at any of the bookstores I went to. I don't know why I wanted it to be vintage. I guess it reminded me of you—too old for its time, but still beautiful." I blushed and looked down at the book, overwhelmed and wanting to cry.

I sniffed and put it aside. I lurched forward and threw my arms around my mother's neck; she hesitated a moment before pulling me close and holding me like she used to when I was tinier. She kissed my forehead and squeezed my shoulder.

"I love you," I told her. "I know I don't say it enough. But I do. Even if you drive me nuts. I got mad _because_ I love you—that probably doesn't make any sense, but whatever. I love you so much and I don't wanna lose you. I don't want you to lose yourself. I just wish we could be more like mother and daughter, okay? You take care of me more than I take care of you. You be the mom now. Please?"

Mom nodded. "I know. I said I'd try harder to be better for you, and I will. I _promise_. Cross my heart. You won't lose me."

I believed her. With every fiber of my being, I trusted her, and envisioned things finally turning around for the both of us.

* * *

 _Present Day_

I still have the gifts I received on that fateful birthday, minus the gift card—we actually did go shopping for clothes and I got several cute shirts that unfortunately I've since outgrown, but still have somewhere back at Charlie's. Maybe Tate can wear them one day if they're her style. I brought the picture frame, the quilt, and _Lord of the Rings_ with me when we came to Seattle, none of which have been unpacked and instead sit in a box tucked in the back of my closet. Safe—invisible.

My mother and I spent the rest of the evening going over my presents and later ordering pizza to eat while watching bad romantic comedies. I laugh now, reminiscing on those cringeworthy films with the cheesy soundtracks and silly dialogue. I wouldn't have wanted to watch them with anyone else, though.

I wake up desperately clinging to the final shreds of my bittersweet memories, disturbed from sleep by my cell's sudden and highly unwanted ringing. I fumble blindly for the dumb phone, trying to wake up so I can properly speak to the caller.

"Hello?" I grumble, answering without looking at the screen first. When the person starts talking I immediately regret that.

"Bella!" a relieved Jessica gasps on the other end. "Oh, thank God you picked up! Oh, Bella, I don't know what to do—" She starts rambling a mile a minute.

"Slow down, Jess." I pull myself into a sitting position, fighting a grunt of pain when my joints collectively protest. "Start over, tell me what happened." _Not that I really care at the moment_. I rub my eyes and try to pay attention to the full story.

"Okay, well—um, you remember my situation with Mike? And how, uh, I thought he was sexting? Yeah, well, that's just it, I _thought_ he was doing that but it turns out he actually wasn't. See, I took your advice when I went home last night after the—well, you know—and I confronted him about it. I mean, I didn't yell at him or anything, I told him I knew what he'd been up to and asked if there's a way we can move past it, like you said. So he was really confused, of course, until I showed him the texts, and by that point I was a mess, I thought our marriage was over, but then he told me this phone wasn't his and that he'd accidentally picked up someone else's. That's why I'm calling you, because, um…" Jess pauses to suck in a huge breath then continues uneasily, "Well—the phone _actually_ belongs to Tyler Crowley. Who is, um…dating Lauren."

My mouth falls open and I stare blankly at the wall for a good thirty seconds. I swear, my life should be a TV show. This shit only happens on soap operas. "Seriously?" I say incredulously. Suddenly I am very, very awake.

"Yeah," Jess says slowly, and I realize I sound happier about this news than is morally acceptable.

"Damn," I whisper, leaning back into the couch cushion and running a hand through my hair. I can't fucking believe this. I know it's incredibly wrong for me to wish anybody ill will, but after what that bitch did to my daughter yesterday I am not going to pretend this doesn't make me the tiniest bit pleased. I can blame it on my relief that _Jess_ didn't get cheated on.

"So that's why I'm calling you," Jessica carries on impatiently. "You gotta help me figure out how to tell Lauren the truth!"

Who in their right mind would think I'd do anything to indirectly help Lauren Mallory? My blood boils, and I snap before thinking it through. "Are you delusional? I'm never opposed to helping you, Jess, just not where _she_ is concerned." The only thing keeping me from screaming is the sleeping four-year-old right down the hall.

"Look, I know you're super mad at her or whatever but _please_ , she's _my_ friend and I can't keep this from her," Jess begs imploringly. "I'm not asking you to magically forgive her for ruining your daughter's coloring book, just tell _me_ how to tell _her_ that there was a—a mix-up between Mike and Tyler and that Tyler is the one who cheated. Or sexted. I dunno. Please!"

My tongue rolls around in my mouth and I gaze up at the ceiling in mute fury. Lauren can burn in hell for all I care. Jess is just gonna have to deal with this on her own. "Sorry, Jess, I really can't," I mutter, and she whimpers. "I don't know how."

"Sure you do!" she persists. "R-remember when you told me how to handle this when I thought I was being cheated on?"

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, but that was, like, really spur-of-the-moment. I gave advice I pieced together from bad movies I've seen. And I _like_ you, so it was easier. I have no clue how to help you now," I explain dismally. I know I'm being a shitty friend, but I don't want to do this.

"Bella. _Please_. I can't keep this from her," she says again. "And I feel like if I tried telling her without consulting you first, I would undoubtedly make things worse, and I can't make her feel more terrible than she's going to be." She sighs. "Bella, please. What do I say? How do I tell my best friend that her boyfriend sexted with someone else? That's all I'm asking."

Obviously she'll leave me alone if I just get it done and over with, but if it's to aid Lauren in a way, I'm not interested. And yet, if it's not my problem, if I'm not the one who has to tell Lauren her boyfriend's a lowlife, what does it matter? I argue with myself, wondering if I should just suck it up and give Jess advice or continue to be bitter. Jessica keeps begging—I put the phone down momentarily to drag my hands over my face and reconsider every single one of my life choices. A good person would help Jess, but I think we've established that realistically I'm far from being as good as I like to think.

 _What would Tate do?_ a teeny voice suddenly whispers in the back of my mind. I almost roll my eyes. _I'll tell you what she'd do—she would help her friend._

Be more like Tate. If I want to go far in life, I should be more like Tate. That's the lesson learned today. Sighing in defeat, knowing that pesky voice has a point, I pick up my phone and say to Jessica, "All right, fine, I'll _try_ to help you fix this."

Besides, doing this will set an example for Tate. I can tell her that Mommy helped her friend and Tate will be all inspired.

"Just be honest with Lauren," I advise Jessica, although that part is quite obvious. "But if you're at work, wait til you both are done for the day and tell her you have some bad news. Don't sugarcoat it or leave out any detail. And try to be calm while you're talking, blubbering and crying in remorse isn't going to help. Be truthful. Offer moral support and a couch to sleep on if she needs it. And as much as you both are gonna hate Tyler after this, don't be teenagers and plot revenge. Not yet, anyway."

"Okay," Jess replies. "Okay, got it. Be honest—calm—supportive…Ugh. I can't believe I have to do this. Laur's gonna be crushed." She sniffles. "And Tyler! Oh my God! That _jerk_. We all just went on a double date a couple weeks ago. They're so in love. Well, I assumed they were, at least. Tyler is _not_ the guy we thought he was. I am so disappointed in him right now."

I barely remember Tyler Crowley. He was part of our group at school but I never paid much attention to him since he was always trying to hit me up and it made me uncomfortable. (Of course I never told him off, I was afraid to. Girl things!) He stopped flirting with me specifically when he met Lauren in tenth grade and ever since then she was the apple of his eye. She slept around with other guys throughout high school but never with him, but apparently they wound up together. In a way I'm surprised he turned out to be scum—he looked at her like he could never want anyone else again in his life. They were having a good time at Jessica's holiday party and I briefly saw them dancing before you-know-what happened. It is a sad occurrence when somebody you barely knew in the past winds up fucking over the person you thought was irrevocably _theirs_.

"Yeah, it really is too bad," I mutter halfheartedly, fiddling with the string on my sweatpants. "Sorry you lost your friend." This doesn't just affect Lauren—it affects anyone who Tyler is close to and calls a friend. He's gonna have nobody now.

"Me too," Jess exhales. "Mike was pissed when we figured it out. I'm kinda scared to ask him what he's saying to Tyler."

"Should I be concerned if you call me back saying Tyler's in the hospital with a broken nose or something?" I say warily.

She laughs once, unamused. "No. I don't think Mike will get violent, but he'll surely give Tyler a piece of his damn mind."

"Good for Mike. I'm, uh, I'm glad he's—well, I mean, I'm glad Mike didn't do this to you. You were so upset; I felt awful."

"Thank you again for being so nice yesterday," Jess murmurs shyly. "I really appreciated it. And—and thank you, now. I-I'm sorry for putting you on the spot, but I didn't know who else to call…You're so good with words. Thanks for helping."

I shrug even if she can't see me. "You're welcome. I, um, I hope Lauren can—can get past this. And dump that asshole."

Jessica giggles. "I won't let her forgive him," she promises ominously. "I'll look after her." She sighs. "Well, I have to go. I gotta finish my shift and then I need to tell Lauren her boyfriend cheated. So fun. Wish me luck," she adds cheerlessly.

"Good luck, Jess. Call me if—if you need to talk. Or if you wanna tell me how it went. Whatever. Just call me whenever."

She thanks me again and we exchange goodbyes before hanging up. I toss my phone onto the coffee table and rub my eyes, intending on going back to sleep. What an interesting turn of events. It does make more sense that Tyler did it and not Mike; I'm actually relieved, just a tiny bit, for Jessica's sake. I couldn't care less about Lauren. Karma sure is a bitch.

I decide to check on my daughter before continuing my nap; I have laundry to do but that can wait. I knock lightly on her door, asking if she's awake. Instead of a verbal response, I hear the hasty sound of a bin full of toys being tipped over.

"Where is she!" Tate is yelling, frantically looking through the colorful pile of small plastic animals when I burst in. "Mama, I can't find Twilight!" she shrieks when she sees me standing there, wide-eyed and startled. "I can't find Twilight! Help me look!" She runs to me and tugs hard on my hand, pointing to the other side of her room. "Go look over there, Mommy!"

I shake my head, confused. "Wait, wait—" I bend down to her level and grab her shoulders, forcing her to stand still. She gives me an exasperated look but I ignore it. "What's the matter?" I ask firmly. "Who's missing?" Who the hell is Twilight? I feel like I should know that. Oops.

" _Twilight Sparkle_ ," Tate insists, annoyed that I don't know. "My pony! You gave 'er to me on my birthday!" Oh, right. Her.

Her pout is so endearing. "Okay, thank you for reminding me." I nod my understanding. "Tell me when you last saw her."

"Ummm…yesterday," she says uncertainly. "I _think_. But—but she has to be here somewhere, Mommy. You have t' help!"

"Okay, baby, I will. Where did you see her yesterday, though? Are you sure she's still here in your room?" I press calmly. She shrugs, starting to look panicked, and is going to start having a fit until I say, "Don't cry, it's okay. I'll help you look. We'll find Twilight, I promise." I kiss Tate's forehead reassuringly. "Go on, you look in that pile of toys. I'll go over here."

She continues searching while I help on the opposite side of her little bed. I dig through a few more of her toy containers and hope I can be the hero and find the damn thing before she has a tantrum. I vaguely remember that Twilight is purple.

I sit back on my heels and think for a long moment, trying to picture what the toy actually looks like. It's about the size of my palm and the character has indigo-colored hair streaked with pink. She's got wings and a horn, I believe. I remember, quite clearly, seeing her both on our television screen and the miniature toy version in Tate's hands. But when did I see it last myself? _Think, Bella, think._ She has lots of toys and figurines like that I see cast around the apartment all the time—I'm always telling her to pick them up and put them away or else either one of us could step on and break them. So if the little Twilight figurine isn't in here, where could she possibly be? I bite my thumb nail and wrack my brain for possibilities.

For some reason my mind darts back to last night's disaster and focuses on what Tate was doing before her life flashed in front of her very eyes. She'd taken something out of her backpack and placed it on the table by her drink; I recognize the figurine in my memory and have to physically fight back a groan of horror. Oh _shit_. She left her pony toy at the diner.

She fucking left Twilight Sparkle at the diner. Where it's either been accidentally thrown away or taken by some other kid. Is this real life? Is this actually happening to me right now? Are you _kidding_ me? What are the chances that it didn't and it could still be there underneath a counter until someone claims it? Probably not very high chances. But even if it was, it'd be my job to go back and get it. Just my luck, the person to hand it over would be Edward the waiter. Uh, yeah, no way.

Sharing a brief moment with the guy last night does not mean I don't want to keep avoiding him.

"Tate," I sigh in defeat. She's still looking through her toys and doesn't seem to hear me. "You left it at the diner, honey."

That grabs her attention. Her head whips around so fast that her dark curls whip her in the face. "What?" she says, perplexed.

"I just remembered," I say, crawling over to her and giving her an apologetic look. "You took it out of your backpack and put it on the table. It's probably still there." _One can only hope_. "We can go back and get it," I reassure her, touching her chin when she visibly deflates, crushed. As terrible as that sounds, I'll do anything for my girl. I'm just gonna have to suck it up and deal with it. I _am_ the adult, sadly.

Tate's doe eyes bug out suddenly and she looks at me, startled. "What if somebody takes my Twilight?!" she screeches.

"They won't!" I say quickly before she can panic. "They won't. That's not gonna happen. You'll get her back, baby." I pull her into a hug and kiss her forehead. "Mommy will take care of it. And I'll buy you a new one if the diner somehow lost it. But you don't have to worry about that because I'll go over there tomorrow before I head to work and pick it up for you. I don't wanna bother them now if they're busy." _Good excuse, Bella_ , I think sarcastically.

Tate nods but still looks upset. Her nose is turning red and I fear she's going to start crying. I cuddle her close and keep telling her she'll get her pony back safe and sound. Eventually her bedroom floor starts getting uncomfortable for me to sit on, so I offer to make her a snack; she bobs her head and glumly untangles herself from my arms. I ask her to put all those toys back in their bin while I work in the kitchen, and she gives me a tiny "Okay, Mommy," and I thank her politely.

Tate toddles out of her room right as I'm done chopping up pieces of celery and putting them on her favorite pink polka -dotted plate. She holds on to my leg and nuzzles my thigh while I spread peanut butter in the green stalks and then add some raisins on top. ("Ants on a log," as the Mommy bloggers call it.) I pour Tate a sippy cup of apple juice and give it to her; I notice she's more intrigued with her snack than the fate of her precious toy. Maybe I'm just good at distracting her. She chirps her thanks when she takes the plate from me and skips off to sit in front of the TV. I tell her to put on _Paw Patrol_.

I decide to get the laundry done while she's occupied, so I fill a basket with our dirty clothes from this week. I feel waves of anxiety starting to slosh around in my stomach and will undoubtedly spread to other places, momentarily draining me of energy. I have to get out of here before Tate notices how red my face is getting and asks questions. She doesn't need to worry about her mom now, too.

"Hey. I'm gonna go do some laundry downstairs, okay? Look at me." I pause her show so she will have to pay attention. "I'll be gone for fifteen to twenty minutes," I continue, and she nods. "I'm gonna shut and lock the door behind me. Remember what we do when I come back? I knock three times so you'll know it's me. But if there's another knock or someone rings the bell, do _not_ answer it. Understand?" She nods. "Good. And if they try talking to you or whoever they think is in here, don't talk back. If they say they have candy or a puppy, they're lying to you. I'm gonna leave you my phone so you can call 9-1-1 if there's an emergency." She hears me go over this every time I leave her here alone but I need to be sure she still gets it. "And I want you to stay _right here_ , okay? You sit here and eat your snack and watch your show. Don't go bouncing off the walls while I'm gone. All righty?"

Tate nods one last time, clearly agitated that I'm keeping her from her show. But she leans forward to give me a kiss and I'm confident that she'll do as I say. I tell her I love her and make sure to grab my keys and wallet before I leave. Even if I do this every other Sunday and nothing has happened yet (so far, praise God), of course I get apprehensive—my four-year-old is in charge of holding down the fort while I do laundry three floors below. At the last second I turn around and I say, "Oh—and don't eat too much at once. Take tiny bites. Be careful with those raisins, you could choke on them."

"I'm careful, Mommy," Tate responds airily, eyes focused on the television, and I sigh. I walk out, closing the door and locking it firmly like I said I would and heading for the elevator at the end of the hall. I hear voices inside some of the rooms I pass. Luckily there's no sex. I'm not in the mood to explain that to my innocent kid.

This apartment complex is generally smaller—and cheaper—than most. It's pretty quiet, too. I don't really know anybody and obviously never went around introducing myself to the neighbors when Tate and I first moved in. I think there's a cat lady two doors to the left of ours and a really chill biker dude lives across the hall from us. (I spoke with him when I went to do laundry a couple weeks ago. He was coming in after a ride on his motorcycle and carried my heavy basket for me on our way back. He struck me as very gentle and compassionate despite his menacing appearance. Don't judge books by their covers, kids.) Overall it's a decent place with little to no disturbances from anybody.

I make my way to the laundromat, thinking about Tate and reflecting on the past three weeks of our life. My anxiety does not help my already present guilt when I remember, again, how stupid I am for moving us here to Seattle and messing up basically everything. My nerves have gotten to my hands now—my fingers are shaking as I sort whites from darks. It's a debilitating thing, knowing what causes my anxiety but not being able to instantly get rid of it. It sucks knowing I've done it to myself—that I'm feeling this way because of the decisions that led me here. I can only point fingers at my reflection.

I lean against the washer next to mine as my first load starts tumbling around. I rub my temples, hoping to fight off what can only be a stress headache. I remember the incident from last night and how it's brought up another issue: getting my daughter's pony toy back. It wouldn't be such a daunting task if I wasn't afraid of returning to that cursed diner. Well, it's not the diner I want to avoid, it's Edward. He's nice and all but every time I see him, something bad happens and it's too much for my anxiety-riddled brain to handle. If I go back to the diner just to retrieve Tate's toy, with my luck he'll be there and we'll have yet another mildly awkward conversation that's going to keep me up at night, reliving the embarrassment.

"I wish I'd stayed in Forks," I whisper to no one in particular right when the washer dings. I wonder if Tate feels the same.

* * *

I get the laundry washed, dried, and folded under twenty minutes like I promised Tate. My mind is still spinning; honestly I feel kind of nauseous. I'll take something for that in case it could turn into something else and I have to take a sick day.

I cringe at the thought of being contagious around my daughter. Although it can't be worse than her daycare friends. Ha.

I'm so distracted that I don't notice the tall figure walking into the building—until I literally crash right into him. The basket on my hip goes tumbling to the floor and the sharp clatter of his phone against the tile is quite possibly the worst thing I have ever heard. Instantly I'm babbling, a stream of frantic apologies falling from my lips as I hurry to pick up my things.

"Oh my God, I am _so_ sorry," I insist hysterically, blood pulsing so fast I can hear it. "I did _not_ mean to do that—"

"It's alright, I know you didn't," a startlingly familiar voice reassures me quickly, reaching for a sock instead of the phone.

"I am such a dumbass, I swear." I'm too on the verge of tears to fully recognize him. "I'm really sorry, it was an accident."

"Don't sweat it, I wasn't looking where I was going either. Here—" He hands over the sock and then Tate's pajama pants.

I'm finally forced to look at him when our hands grab the same red shirt and skin touches skin. I feel the color drain from my face and my jaw drops in surprise. Green eyes, wide and remorseful, meet my watery chocolate brown, and in a very cliché manner we stare at one another for an immeasurable period of time.

A tiny sigh escapes me before I say, my tone bordering on exasperation, "Hello again, Edward." Saying his name is odd. It almost feels prohibited.

"Hi," he whispers, half a smile tugging at the corner of his full mouth. I momentarily forget how to breathe. The fuck, am I sixteen? _Bitch, get it together._

"Uh—oh, I'll take that." The blush returns to my cheeks and I snatch up the shirt we're both holding. I grab what's left and get back onto my feet, bringing the full basket with me. I toss my hair out of my eyes and blink the tears away hurriedly.

 _Is this going to become a thing between us?_ I marvel vaguely as he seizes his phone and stands up as well, inspecting it.

"Oh no, is it broken?" I ask timidly, biting my lip. I lean forward to see if it's cracked, hoping it isn't. I can't afford repairs.

"Nah, it's good." Edward shoves it into his back pocket before I can get a closer look. He smiles at me again, a bit shy.

"I'm—I'm sorry," I mumble, looking down at my feet. Those eyes of his are so mesmerizing. "I should've been looking…"

He's shaking his head before I've even finished talking. "No, no, I was the one texting and walking. It could've waited."

I press my lips together, charmed by his willingness to take the blame even though we both know I'm the idiot in this situation. "Well, we can both be in the wrong, then, I guess."

He laughs once and nods. The piece of auburn hair on his forehead bobs up and down. "Yeah, okay, maybe." He winks.

Oh, geez. My face turns a slightly darker shade of pink and I shuffle my feet. Something occurs to me and I look at him, arching my eyebrows in confusion. "What are you doing here?" I blurt out before I can compose my accusatory attitude.

"I live here," he replies innocently, looking as if I'm supposed to know that by his unexpected entrance.

 _Of course you do._ "Oh." I blink once, a little flabbergasted. "You live—you live here? In the same apartment building as me?" What a shocker.

"Yup." Now he looks like he's trying not to laugh. "Yeah, I have since—since this past January, I think," he says patiently.

"That's why you look so familiar," I mumble without realizing my thoughts are connected to my mouth all of a sudden. His brow furrows and I struggle to explain myself. Fuck. Why did I say that out loud? I mean, it's true—I must've seen him at one point during the entire time I have been here. I recognized him on Tate's birthday because I had to have spotted him walking around, albeit briefly. "Um—well, you just—you looked familiar, that's all," I tell him. Why am I so nervous? It's the truth. "You're my neighbor."

"That I am," he says with a grin. "I guess that's why _you_ look familiar to me, too…I've probably seen you around as well."

I don't notice we've started walking together until we reach an elevator and he presses the up button. I don't want to think I've seen him elsewhere, aside from the diner, because then it'll turn into a thing and I'm too awkward to ask if we've ever actually met at any other place. What if he says no? Then what do I say? So I bury the desire to ask and the thought that I'm wrong, even if deep down inside my explanation doesn't feel right. But when _have_ I been right? I'm most likely mistaken. This time is no different.

"How's Tate?" Edward inquires politely, hitting the yellow three button before I can. He's on my floor, too? What the hell?

"She's good," I reply airily, still thrown off by how coincidental and ironic our situation is. "She, um…She almost had her first panic attack earlier because she left her pony toy at the diner, funnily enough. It's a birthday gift so she was upset."

My words seem to remind him of something because he hastily reaches into the front pocket of his jeans as the elevator doors slide open. I shouldn't be as surprised as I am when Edward casually pulls out the Twilight Sparkle figurine for me to see. "You mean this little thing?" he asks, and I hurriedly place my wallet on top of the clothes in order to take the toy.

"Oh my God!" I exclaim, gazing at it, walking alongside him slowly. "How did you—? Oh, right. You work there." A smile grows on my face and I can't contain it. "Thanks," I say gratefully. "Tate's gonna be so happy. Oh, thank God…"

He chuckles, but doesn't say anything else. He rummages around in his jacket for a pair of keys and now I see that he is right down the hall from Tate and I, only several feet from the elevator. Keys in hand, he turns to me and says, "Well, it's a good thing I was the one who found it since I'm not too sure if my coworkers would have been kind enough to keep it."

Smartass. "Yeah, really. You're Tate's hero," I giggle. "I will tell her you've valiantly kept Twilight Sparkle safe from harm."

He salutes me like a soldier. "Yes ma'am, and I would do it again in a heartbeat," he promises. I know he really means it. He's that type of person.

Without thinking, I put the toy aside and reach for his hand, squeezing it. "Really, thank you," I say sincerely. His fingers are very warm. And long. They make mine feel incredibly tiny. "Not—not a lot of people would've done what you did. Nobody…cares enough to carry around a plastic pony toy with them all day."

He blushes and studies at our entwined hands, stunned. I quickly let go, ashamed I actually did that. Why did I do that?!

"Sorry." I tuck my hair behind my ear. "Um—again, sorry for, you know, running into you like that. I need to pay attention to where I'm going. Sometimes I just…get lost in my own head and I—yeah. A lot of people do that, though, I suppose."

"I do," Edward says, nodding in agreement even though he probably doesn't relate to a total loser like me. "All the time."

We stand in comfortable silence for five seconds before it starts to get _un_ comfortable. I'm the first to say, "Well, see you later. Thanks for, um, helping me pick up my shit, and returning Tate's pony. Oh, and I'm glad I didn't break your phone."

He laughs lightly. "Me too," he responds warmly, winking at me again. "Good night. Catch ya on the flip side, neighbor."

A smile curves my lips. He's quite the charmer. "Good night," I say softly with a quick nod. "See you around sometime."

I head down the hall towards my door. I feel his eyes on the back of my head, but don't get the sense he's about to turn on me or anything—it's more like he's waiting to be sure I get home safe, even if there aren't any threats in this…hallway.

I look over my shoulder to let him know without words that I'm fine. He raises his chin once, smiles, and then disappears inside his apartment.

I knock on my door three times before I unlock it and tell Tate that it's just me. I hear her little voice greet me happily and the relief that fills me is indescribable. She's still sitting on the floor by the coffee table where I left her, every last bite of celery gone and not a drop of juice left in her cup. I set the laundry basket on the counter and she stands up to meet me halfway; she runs right into my arms, throwing hers around my neck and nuzzling my cheek with her bitty nose, laughing.

"What's so funny, honey bunny?" I murmur against her hair. My mother's nickname for me has resurfaced after a decade. How fitting that I'm now using it for my daughter.

"Nothin'," Tate says, still giggling. I decide that it most likely is nothing; sometimes Tate just likes to laugh.

"Hey, I got something for you," I murmur, taking a step back and reaching for Twilight Sparkle, still in the laundry basket. She leans out of my arms to see what it is, and her demeanor upon seeing her beloved toy should be showed alongside the word "euphoria" in the dictionary. I hand it to her, smiling, and she clutches it to her chest, kicking her legs in delight.

"Where'd you find her, Mommy?" she demands to know, looking over the pony to make sure it isn't damaged or broken.

"You know Mr. Edward?" I begin carefully, testing her reaction. She nods, intrigued by the mention of his name. "Well—I was coming back from washing all the laundry and I bumped into him." Literally, but she doesn't need to know that. "And so we started talking and he asked how you were, and when I said you were sad about losing Twilight Sparkle, he put his hand in his pocket and pulled her out! He rescued her from the diner before anybody could sweep her away. Wasn't that so nice of him?" Her eyes are alight with gratitude and awe, bow lips forming a cute O shape of exaggerated surprise. "And guess what else?" I say in a low voice, and she waits breathlessly for me to finish. "Mr. Edward lives here, on our floor."

" _Really_?!" Tate gasps, dramatically incredulous. "Mr. Edward lives _here_?!" She looks like she can't believe her ears. I'm having a hard time comprehending it myself.

"Yeah!" I nod animatedly. "Right down the hall. Isn't that fun? He's been here this whole time and we didn't even know it!"

"Wooow," Tate whispers, staring at her pony again. "Can we go see 'im?" she pleads a moment later. "Please, Mommy?"

My heart sinks a little at having to say no and disappoint her. "No, baby, not today," I say apologetically. "Maybe soon."

"Awww." She pouts and genuinely looks saddened at not being able to visit her—our?—new friend. I'm bummed too. Just a little. _Or a lot._

What are the odds of this guy living in the same building as Tate and I and neither of us knowing until now, only after we've seen each other twice—three times now—under unfortunate circumstances? It's kinda strange. I still have that itchy feeling about wanting to ask him if there's a chance we've met before somehow but not being brave enough to try. I can't shake the thought that I don't recognize him from where we are now—a voice tells me the scenario just isn't…right.

But if I'm wrong—and there's a chance I am, of course—why does it irk me so much to believe I don't remember Edward from anywhere else? Why can't he just be the kindhearted waiter at the diner who also happens to be my neighbor?

 _Okay, so what happens if you_ have _met him before?_ the person in my head ponders. Yeah, what if? I didn't consider that. Depends on the situation, too.

I don't know what will happen if I'm right, but I decide to leave my reaction to whatever he has to say. I can't predict fate. Only time will tell.

* * *

 _I'm quite excited about this chapter. I ship it already._

 _Quick note, when I first started writing this story I hadn't mapped out the details, I was just writing it for fun and didn't think it would go anywhere. But now that I'm actually continuing it, let me just clarify a few things. Charlie, Renee, and Bella's birth years have all been bumped up four years. Charlie is now born in November 1969, Renee in August 1973, and Bella in September 1992. Charlie is currently forty-four and obviously Bella just turned twenty-two. Renee and Phil died in March 2005 when Bella was twelve. I wanted to include the flashback to Bella's twelfth birthday because it was the last one she ever spent with Renee, so naturally she'd remember it more clearly and the events that took place have more significance to her._

 _Also, everyone you've seen so far is important and each have their own stories that will be fleshed out and explored as time goes on. Bella, Edward, and Tate might be the "main" characters but I'm not the kind of writer who throws in background characters but doesn't give them a second thought. They aren't just plot devices to get Bella and Edward in the same room! ;) That being said, Jessica and Lauren will be making frequent reappearances. Trust me when I say I have ideas for them and how they can become a part of Bella's life. I want to challenge myself with this story and see where I can take it!_

 _One more thing, I changed my mind about who Tate's father is and no, it's still not Edward, but it isn't James like I'd originally planned either. That's too easy! Like I said, I'm challenging myself to be creative and try things I haven't done before, so what's harder than figuring out who the baby daddy is? If Bella doesn't know, I don't know. If I don't know, she doesn't know. Get it? I think I'll be able to connect with her more if I have no clue myself. Fun fun. Let's see where this goes._

 _Sorry for blabbing too much. Hope y'all enjoyed! Favorite, follow, maybe leave an encouraging review? Your thoughts on chapters gives me motivation!_

 _See you next time! Happy Easter!_

 _\- Cherry_


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